The surgeon's warning echoed through the haze: one more serious hit to my lower back, and I'd never walk again. No surgeon on earth could undo it.
My father's words on the phone just minutes ago flashed through my mind.
I clenched my teeth, looked up at Judy, and forced the words out through the shaking.
"I was wr—"
She cut me off before I could finish.
"Apologize?! You think I still want to hear it?!"
Viciousness gleamed in her eyes.
"Dustin, I've spent eight years spoiling you rotten. Today, I'm putting you back in your place."
She glanced over her shoulder. Dozens of water guns swung toward me in unison.
The jets hit all at once, dense as whips, hammering into my face, my chest, my back.
The force knocked me flat.
Judy reached down and laced her fingers through Howard's.
Howard aimed the water gun straight at my face.
Water forced itself up my nose, flooded my ear canals, burned like fire through every passage it touched.
I tried to rise, but the pressure blurred everything to nothing.
I couldn't even lift my head. All I could do was kneel there and take it—jet after jet of ice-cold water slamming into me, every blast a fresh jolt of agony.