Honoria, Dr. Wolff tries for gentle. “That wasn’t too bad, I hope.”
I grit my teeth, determined not to let the tears show.
“How’s your inhaler?”
“Why won’t it work on anything but my headaches?”
“What else would you need it for?”
“My leg,” I say, kicking it for emphasis.
“You pushed it too hard last night, didn’t you?” he asks.
I shrug. Dr. Wolff isn’t intimidating in the least when he’s not armed with medical instruments, but my throat threatens to close up every time I come here.
“Does it hurt now?” he asks.
“It’s a little sore,” I lie. The echo of pain from my nightmare has plagued me since I woke up.
“You didn’t break the wound open?”
“No,” I say quickly, afraid he’ll decide he needs to examine it again, which will only lead to more questions and a longer stay.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Wolff eyes me suspiciously for the too-polite answer, but I imagine he’s seen plenty of people acting strange since last night.
“How’s Jove?” I ask, redirecting him.
Several beds are curtained off, so I assume he’s behind one of the partitions, but I’d sort of like to know that what Anne-Marie and I did last night made a difference. It would be nice to be the answer to a problem for once, rather than the cause.
“He’ll be all right,” Dr. Wolff says. “I understand he has you to thank for that.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“Not many people would have made the choice you did.” My face must show my confusion because he explains. “You and Annie kept him from going to into shock. It takes a great deal of compassion to offer aid after someone’s hurt you.”
Somehow I don’t think he’d appreciate my saying I was more concerned with keeping Anne-Marie from losing it than keeping Jove comfortable.
“Jove was scared,” I say. “He thought . . . you know . . . that his mom was one of them. He thought she’d come with the Fade to take him back to the Dark.”
“And he blamed you?”
“He always has.”
“Do you think his opinions have changed?”
“I doubt he can tell me. I’m pretty sure his jaw was broken.”
“Dislocated and fractured,” Dr. Wolff corrects. “But it should heal good as new.”
He picks up an empty syringe. I’d hoped we could skip the blood sample this visit, but the man is nothing if not consistent. I roll up my sleeve and give him my arm, watching the tube in his hand as it fills.
“Have you given any consideration to where you’d like to focus your studies once you age up?” he asks.
“It sort of slipped my mind.”
Along with everything else that wasn’t “run for your life or die trying.”
“Well, should it happen to slip back in, I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said. There are some things a person’s born to, whether they want to believe it or not,” he says. He removes the needle and taps me on the head with my hospital file while I bend my elbow to stop the bleeding.
“You might as well let me refill your inhaler while you’re here. If you’ve been using it for your leg, you’ve probably depleted it. I’m surprised you haven’t overdosed.”
I pull the cord over my head and hand it to him without mentioning that most of my inhaler usage was in a dream.
“It’ll be a minute or two; the new batch isn’t mixed.”
Dr. Wolff disappears into the back room where he keeps his supplies locked up, leaving me to wait alone. He wasn’t exaggerating the need for healers when he spoke in class. In all the time I’ve spent in this room, I’ve seen maybe a dozen people wearing patches that denote medical service, and none are here consistently. They only come when called to assist.
I close my eyes again, straining for sounds to give the moment depth. Pinging machines, or the whoosh of air from the overhead vent, even my own heartbeat. Often, finding that faint layer beneath the usual clamor or quiet is the only way I can function. Absolute silence terrifies me.
I’m counting the ticks of a wall clock when I hear footsteps approach from the door on the opposite side of the hospital, stopping behind the curtain next to my bed.
“I’m sorry, man.” It’s Tobin, talking to Jove. “I know you can’t hear me, but I’m sorry.”
I should tell him I’m here, but I already know I won’t. I can be very still when I want, and right now, I’m grateful for it. He’d never talk like this if he knew I could hear him.
“And don’t think I’m only apologizing because Annie threatened unspecified yet terrifying retribution if I didn’t.”
He pauses every few words, but no matter how hard I listen, there’s never a response. He must be filling in Jove’s half of the conversation with his own imagined answers.
I do that—imagine conversations with Tobin. I apologize for his father’s death and he accepts, or I apologize and he curses me; it depends on my mood. I don’t have to pretend with Jove or the others, because I know where I stand with them, but Tobin won’t even acknowledge that his dad’s dead. Somehow my offense seems greater with him, like it’s worse because his father was the one who made the call to save me over the rest.
“And Mr. Pace didn’t make me come, either. I just wanted to apologize. I’ll do it again when you’re awake, okay?”
Tobin’s words may be friendly and familiar, but his voice comes thin and hurried, punctuated by bouts of swallowing.
“I’m probably rambling you into a deeper coma, but I haven’t slept, so it’s not my fault. I doubt anyone slept after last night. Well, maybe Annie.”
He laughs; I put my hand over my mouth so I can’t. Anne-Marie can sleep anywhere. I’ve even seen her do it standing up when we were in formation too long. She dropped her forehead onto Jonah’s back and started snoring.
“And, when you wake up, we’re going to talk about Marina. You have to step off. You can’t keep—”
The door on the other side of the room slides open again. This time someone enters with the sound of heavy boots rather than student shoes.
Can’t keep what? I want to shout.
“I’ll go,” Tobin says. “I just wanted to check
