“What’s it to yah, punk?” Jack replied. “I don’t go ’round handin’ out my monicker to every stray what asks for it.”
“Okay,” the boy said, admiration creeping into his voice. Then he changed abruptly. “What you doin’ lyin’ down? Get outta here!”
“I’m sick, too,” Jack said. “I gotta stay in bed.”
The patient looked at Jack closely. “Take good care of yourself, pretty boy,” he taunted.
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, I will, thanks. I’m a guy who oughtta take care of hisself. I’m important.”
“You ’n’ who else?”
“Jest me. Wanna make somethin’ of it?” he scowled at the boy.
The child’s eyes opened wider. “Okay, so you’re a big shot,” he said grudgingly. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” Jack snapped.
“Timmy. Timothy Lester.”