“I think it’s paint,” Sam had said, embarrassed.
Back in his hotel room, he’d bandaged himself up, making sure not to get any blood on the hotel carpet, and then he threw his sneakers in the trash.
The point was, someone needed to promote the games, and Sadie had made it clear that she didn’t want to be that person.
What Sam loved best was being alone with Sadie and filling a blank slate with their grand ideas. He loved building a world with her. They had agreed to reconvene in the evening, and he was excited to start work.
He took a shower, but when he got out of the shower, he found that his foot would not stop bleeding. One of the seven metal rods that made up the structure of his foot had gotten out of alignment again and it was, inconveniently, poking through his flesh. The pain was sharp, but bearable. It was the nuisance that bothered him. As he sat on the bathroom floor, trying to make the bleeding stop, he found a second hole in his foot. When he poked his finger in the second hole, he could feel the end of one of the other rods. For a second, he allowed himself to feel scared. That was when Marx returned from Zoe’s.
Marx found Sam on the bathroom floor, the damaged foot exposed. Marx hadn’t seen Sam’s foot for many years, as Sam took great pains to keep it concealed. But seeing it, Marx had no idea how Sam was even ambulatory. Sam’s foot looked deathly—bruised and bloody and twisted and gory. Sam quickly threw a towel over it. “Jesus, Sam. You’re going to the doctor right now,” Marx said.
“I can’t. I’m supposed to meet with Sadie in a couple of hours,” Sam said calmly. “We’re working on a new game. And it’s not like I’m going to bleed to death tonight. Trust me, Marx. I’ve been dealing with this sort of thing for a while. Would you mind getting me some cotton and gauze?”
Marx went into their medicine cabinet, and he handed Sam the supplies.
“It’ll heal in a couple of days. It always does,” Sam said, with a confidence that he did not entirely feel. “Sadie and I are starting to get momentum with the new game.”
After last night’s argument, Marx was encouraged to hear that they were working on something and curious to hear what it was. “Fine,” Marx said. “But I’m making you an appointment for tomorrow.”
Sam’s orthopedist was booked for the next week. By the morning of his appointment, the foot seemed neither better nor worse, though Sam was not walking on it almost at all, and he had, in the last several days, developed a fever. Marx went with Sam to the doctor, both to ensure that he went, and to offer his assistance on the way back.
At the doctor’s office, Marx waited in the reception area and passed the time reading Joan Didion’s White Album, which was not entirely pleasure reading. Zoe was thinking of moving to California. She had begun to find work scoring films, television, and advertising, and she thought she could find more work if she moved out to Los Angeles for a time. The idea appealed to Marx, not just for Zoe, but because he had always been drawn to living in California. He loved the West Coast. He had wanted to go to Stanford, but he hadn’t gotten in. He appreciated Los Angeles, its skinny palm trees and its decaying Spanish-style homes and its occasional flocks of parrots and its smiling people who always wanted something from you. He liked hiking and running, and he wouldn’t have minded living in a place where he could be outdoors most of the year. In terms of work, there were tons of game people on the West Coast, particularly in Los Angeles, and airy, stylish, modern office spaces that cost less than what they paid in Cambridge. After he’d returned from a business trip out there the prior year, Marx had floated the idea of setting up their office in California to Sadie and Sam. They were both from Los Angeles and neither had wanted to return. To return to the city of one’s birth always felt like retreat.
About a half hour after he’d gone in, Sam emerged from the doctor’s office. He was on crutches, his foot was wrapped in thick bandages, and he was carrying a prescription that needed to be filled for a course of antibiotics.
“What did she say?” Marx asked.
Sam shrugged. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“So, you’re good?” Marx persisted. He could not get the visual of Sam’s foot out of his mind.
“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” Sam said. “I want to get back to work.”
Marx and Sam went out to the parking lot to wait for a cab. Marx pretended to realize he had left The White Album in the waiting area. “I’ll just be a second,” he said.
Back in the office, he quickly claimed his book and then he went up to the desk to see if Sam’s doctor had a moment to speak with him. He was Sam’s brother, he said, and he had questions about Sam’s condition. Because Marx was Marx—handsome, charming, polite—the nurse said she would try.
Marx went back to the doctor’s office, and the doctor said she was quite glad to talk to him, because she wasn’t always sure Sam was hearing her. She had cleaned, stitched up the wound, and realigned the foot as much as it was possible to do so. The largest wound on his foot had become infected, so Sam had to be given a course of antibiotics. But the news was not good. The doctor felt an amputation was inevitable.
“He says he can tolerate the pain, though I don’t know how he is. But it isn’t about the pain at this point. His foot is unsustainable. The rods are wearing out what’s left of his bone and his skin is becoming prone to infection and resistant to healing. The only way to stop the damage is if he uses a wheelchair and puts literally no pressure on the foot, which I wouldn’t recommend for an active twenty-four-year-old. He will constantly be back here unless he takes serious action. The sooner, the better. He doesn’t want to end up with sepsis, which could lead to a riskier emergency amputation. He’s young and he’s in good health—if it were my brother, I’d tell him it’s time.”
The cab was waiting for them when Marx got back out to the curb.
“That took a while,” Sam remarked.
“Yes.”
“Well,” Sam said. “I can tell by your face and your dodgy timeline that something happened in there. What is it?”
“I ran into your doctor when I was in the lobby. She thought I was your brother. She seems”—Marx searched for the right word—“concerned.”
Sam tightened his grip on his crutches. “She had no right to talk to you. My medical situation is my private business.”
Marx knew that invoking friendship and personal history was never useful with Sam. “Sam, it arguably is my business. We’re partners, and if you’re going to need major surgery, Sadie and I need to be able to plan.”
“People have been telling me that I have to do something about this foot for years. I get it. I get that it’s probably close to time, but I need to make the new game with Sadie first.”
“Sam! How long is that going to take? You haven’t even started. I’m your producer and I don’t know anything about it. A week ago, you two were still arguing about whether to make Ichigo III.”
“We’ve resolved that now.”
“This is madness. If you’re scared, that would be entirely understandable. That would be—”