Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Right. Nothing shrinky,” she said.

  I laughed, a dry puff of air through my teeth.

  “What can we talk about?” she said.

  “Why do people always feel the need to talk? What's wrong with silence? What's wrong with worrying in a quiet room?”

  “Are you worrying about David?”

  I pointed at her. She lifted her hands and gave a disarming smile. We sat quietly. It became unbearable.

  “Did Sarakas send you?”

  “No. I'm here for David. The nurse said you were waiting, so I thought I'd join you.”

  “Davey, not David. What about next of kin?”

  “Seems he doesn't have any.”

  “What happens to him now?” I said.

  “No one will adopt someone like him,” she said. “He's too old. People prefer to adopt young children who are cute and impressionable. Davey is seventeen and considerably damaged. Teens are difficult to begin with. Traumatized, potentially contaminated teens are impossible to place. State won't pay for traditional fostering because he's a potential. He will be placed in a suitable, temporary home.”

  I've seen those places. Not suitable. Little more than death camps.

  If Sarakas and I hadn't gone poking around, Mason wouldn't have panicked, stampeded into Davey's house, and eaten everyone. This was partially my fault. Mostly, not partially. Of course, if we had let Mason go, it would have been another family on another street. Damned if we did, damned if we didn't. And we had.

  Damn it.

  “Want some coffee?” Vanessa said.

  “I'd love some.”

  She patted my shoulder and left.

  Liza arrived. Wild red hair framed her tired face.

  “I rarely see you unless I'm doctoring you,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Drug free. Just say no.”

  “That's not what I meant.”

  “Think the kid will be okay?”

  “Honestly? Fifty-fifty at best. If the doctors are telling you anything different, they're lying. That kid has a solid chance of surviving the surgeries and grafts. Less a chance if they amputate. Keep Dr. Tualla out of the operating room. He believes in amputating mutt wounds. Get Dr. Weber for grafting, Dr. Alderson for surgery, and Dr. Hoyt for recovery.”

  “Thanks, Liza.”

  Before leaving, she patted my shoulder. Why did everyone think that was comforting? It wasn't. For Davey to survive would be comforting. And practically a miracle. I set my head in my hands and continued to wait. Fell asleep.

  Nearly tumbled from the chair.

  Jerked awake with panic. I was alone in the waiting room. My heart pitter-pattered in my chest. Why was I here? I did the pat-down, felt all my weapons in place. Remembered Davey. Checked the clock and learned it was after midnight.

  An abandoned cup of coffee sat nearby. I took it and strolled to the nurse's station.

  “Hey,” I said. “How's my guy?”

  The nurse recognized me and said, “They pulled him out of surgery until he stabilizes. He's in room 888.”

  “Prosperity,” an elderly voice said. I turned. Zelda wore a housedress and scarf and carried glassware. “Eight is a prosperous number. I have a good feeling about this.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Sarakas stopped by your house to fetch a spare set of clothes. Except I couldn't let a stranger walk into your home when you weren't there, so I went to investigate. He said you were fine except you hadn't eaten. Thus, the mini-pot pies.”

  “Firstly, if you see someone snooping around my house, call the cops. Secondly, it's not safe for you to be in quarantine. If you so much as sneeze, they'll think you caught lycanthropy or vampirism. C'mon, let's get you out of here.” I put my hand on her arm to steer her.

  “Nonsense.” She cracked the lid of the food container, disarming me with wispy vapors of home cooking. I was defenseless. My stomach rumbled and I reached for one of the pies. Delicious. Not enough gravy to make it too messy, just enough to ooze over the crust as I ate, affording me the opportunity to stick my fingers in my mouth. Anything eaten with my hands is automatically better than something eaten with a fork.

  “Why are you wearing a hospital gown?” she said.

  “My clothes were soaked to the last stitch in blood.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Let's not talk about that. Where is our guy?”

  “This way,” I said.

  “Are you family?” the nurse questioned.

  “Of course we are,” Zelda said.

  “Right,” the nurse said. “Look, q-ward doesn’t really allow visitors. You can view him on a monitor if you have a writ.”

  “There now, don't fret. Have a pot pie. Meet Agent Durant, who frequents this fine establishment more than any living being should. She's an excellent social servant who saved that poor boy's life. Surely you can make an exception.”

  The nurse wavered under the power of Zelda's charming smile and the pie's flaky crust. We scurried down the hall before she could change her mind. The guard at the door gave us a distinct “no” expression and didn't budge when I flashed my fed tag. He turned his glare to Zelda.

  “She's with me,” I said.

  “Your risk, ladies,” he said. “Of course, you may be subject to a thorough search of your person before you leave.”

  “I do hope so.” Zelda winked at him.

  I chortled as the man blushed. She was such a flirt. He unbolted the door and slid the bar aside. Heavy security made q-ward feel more like a prison than a hospital, and I was embarrassed for Zelda to see it. She didn’t belong there. The door clanged behind us.

  Sarakas slept in the chair but woke when the door closed. Disheveled, exhausted. Whisker growth darkened his jaw. He stretched like a cat and nearly fell out of the chair. Watching his body lengthen and move attractively, Zelda fanned her face.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “You know it isn't safe in here.”

  “Is this our boy?” she said.

  I wished she'd stop calling him that.

  “His name is Davey,” I said. She approached the bed.

  Davey was unconscious, of course. His arm was bundled from shoulder to wrist in enough gauze to resemble a club. No guessing the state of the flesh underneath. Additional bandaging covered his throat and shoulder. His hospital gown was messy with fluids oozing through the bandages, his right wrist was handcuffed to the bed. A rough collar ensnared his throat. The monitoring machines stood a safe distance from the bed, but with the cords stretched tight it gave Davey the look of an isolated fly on a web. Doomed. Alone.

  Zelda reached out to touch his clean shoulder. I was pretty sure the disease only passed through blood, but I would not risk her health on an assumption. I swiped her hand away. My wrist bumped the victim's skin. Ghoulishly wan and chill at the same time.

  “No touching, Zelda.”

  “Everyone knows we can't get lycanthropy from simple contact.”

  “Actually, we don't know that. Just to be safe, keep your distance.”

  “Poor fellow. And there's no family?”

  Sarakas spoke up. “Vanessa thinks they found a distant cousin in Baltimore. They're looking into it.”

  She nodded and stifled a yawn.

  “What were you doing up so late?” I said to Zelda.

  “Oh, had the oddest dream. Woke me right up. Dreamt I was in the kitchen making turnovers, the ones with the raw chunky sugar on top and the mixed cherries inside? I like to use at least three different types of cherries because the taste buds should always be surprised, don't you think? And none of that canned filling for me, no missy. Anyway, in my dream, I was baking merrily and listening to Aretha Franklin on the radio. You remember her, yes? Suddenly, all the cats rushed past me to the windowsill. Near spilled flour on everything.

  “I went to look, and there was the nicest black doggie, like the kind people kept as pets years ago. And what do you know, he came right
up to the porch and sat down under my azaleas. The cats didn't mind. In fact, they liked him. I brought him one of my turnovers, and the doggie ate it. I sat down on the porch swing with some lemonade. It was very pleasant with him resting by my feet. He panted happily and we stared at your house. I had the distinct impression we were waiting for you to come over for supper.”

  “In your dream,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, but you might as well come over tomorrow night. Or tonight, technically. My, I'm tired. Best be getting to bed if I'm going to be baking in the morning.”

  “It doesn't mean anything, you know,” I said, ignoring several dreams that haunted me. “Dreams are leftover ideas that your brain plays with.”

  “So they say. They also say you can catch lycanthropy from sneezes and that burning crosses make lovely lawn ornaments.”

  I smiled tightly.

  “Let me walk you out,” Andreas said. Zelda batted her eyes and pressed the glassware into my hands. She took his arm and they left.

  I stayed with Davey. Recalling his cold skin, I flipped up the thermostat before I sat down and munched on a pot pie. Not thinking much of anything. The heavy iron door opened again.

  “I think she adopted you,” Sarakas said.

  “Silly, I'm a grown woman.”

  “I don't think she cares.”

  “As long as she doesn't take up nagging and keeps the sweets coming.” I sighed. “You okay?”

  “Can't shake the feeling that this is our fault.”

  “It isn't,” I insisted, even though I felt the same.

  “I know. Even so.”

  “Yeah. But if not that house, it would have been another one.”

  “I agree. Still sucks.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I patted his shoulder. Oddly, I think that comforted him. Nothing like a firefight and watching a kid nearly get eaten to make two folks forget about an argument. His phone rang. I took my hand back and set it in my lap. When he answered, he stood and turned away, taking a smidgen of privacy. I didn't eavesdrop. I was too tired to care about who was calling him this early.

  “Vanessa said the cousin is a no-go,” Andreas said.

  “She's still working on the case at four in the morning?”

  He shrugged. “The cousin from Baltimore doesn't even remember our boy. Being a fervent Devoted, the man said he'd pray on it.”

  “No Devoted will accept a victim touched by the devil himself. Not unless there's a vat of holy water and a burning cross waiting. Hell, they might take the medical mercy outlet and feed Davey euthotabs.”

  “That's life.”

  “That's ridiculous.”

  “Yep.” He sighed. “Vanessa said she'll relieve you after she gets a few hours of sleep. Do you want me to stick around?”

  “Go get some rest.” I hoisted the coffee cup. “I'm set for another four to six hours.”

  “Spare clothes are in the closet. Hope you don't mind that I used your key. Don't worry, I didn't go through your things. I took the stuff on top of the dryer.”

  “That's fine. Thanks. And thank Vanessa for me. She's good people.”

  “Certainly true. Goodnight.”

  He took a pot pie and I watched him go. The cell door—sorry, hospital door—clanged as the guard threw the massive bolt. I went to the closet and grabbed the clothes. I was curious to see what he'd picked. It wasn’t often that a man considered my wardrobe. Jeans, well-worn with holes in various places, but comfy as a blanket, and an oversize plaid shirt. Sarakas hadn't pawed through my underwear to get a bra. Luckily, I didn't need one. I slid my long legs into the jeans and stepped into the dark closet to change my shirt. No way was I getting topless in a room with a minor, even if he was unconscious.

  Davey didn't stir and the machines didn't give any indication he might. His modern haircut had an overly long lock of hair in the front. Boys liked to sweep it artfully aside, constantly touching it with their fingertips. I didn't understand that. Cut it or leave it alone. I reached out and moved his fine black hair with the tip of my pinkie. It was damp, cold. Jesus, the kid might freeze to death. I selected another blanket from the closet and settled it over him so gently there was no chance of agitating the arm.

  I sat back in the chair and watched him. The breathing tube in his nose, the wires in his arm, the nodes on his chest: familiar rigging.

  Dumb kid. Fighting with a mutt over a handful of dead baby parts. Stupidest thing ever. Brave as all get-out. Naked, desperate, and doomed, Davey had struggled to pull a devoured baby from the maw of the beast.

  The methodical blip and blink of machines put me to sleep.

  The beeping changed slightly, drawing me out of slumber. I sat up, thinking he'd woken or stirred. He looked unconscious, but his eyelids moved in REM sleep and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  He grieved in his sleep.

  “Everything will be okay, Davey,” I whispered. Liar.

  I watched as if the universe hung in the balance. I wondered why I hadn't cried at Yvonne's funeral and tried to remember the last time I cried, period, other than the drunken bout Sarakas had witnessed. Might have been years ago over a foreign flick concerning a samurai and his father.

  Here was this kid, weeping in his sleep. Nose running and everything. I cleaned that up, but his eyes didn't stop leaking. Part of me wanted to scream at him to cut it out, but I had no right. He wouldn't have heard me anyway.

  Maybe he needed a good cry.

  Some people seem to find that comforting.

  He wept.

  I shook. Gently at first, attributing it to the cold room. The trembling grew more violent the longer I watched him. Shaking. Toes, flanks, gut, chest, arms, throughout. I couldn't explain it, couldn't stop it. It was completely silly. I rubbed my hands together until the friction rendered them scathingly hot and pressed the heels of my palms over my weary eyelids. Tired. That's all. Very, very tired...

  Davey was bleeding. His back was torn and spurting, covered with merciless tooth marks. He resembled a doll made of sausage meat. A swarm of mutts fought for his limbs and soft spots, dragging him back and forth over a blank canvas like he was a meaty paintbrush.

  I jolted up in the chair, sick with panic and slick with sweat. Davey laid peacefully on the bed. I couldn't catch my breath.

  The door clanged shut as a man in a lab coat slipped into red gloves.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Tualla.”

  “Nope. Get your ass out. Sorry. Thanks for all your work. Whatever. I want a second opinion.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, excuse me.” I showed him the butt of my gun and he quickly vacated. The guard at the door stared at me like I had sprouted horns. “I don't suppose you deliver coffee?”

  He slammed the door. I sank back into the chair and examined the patient. At least Davey wasn't crying anymore.

  “Good morning,” Vanessa said, entering. She was crisp, cheerful, well-tailored, and lovely. I had morning breath, no joy, and about three hours of sleep.

  “Morning, doc,” I said.

  “How's he doing?”

  “Pretty much the same.”

  She drew a chair close and handed me a file. “Please sign to acknowledge you accompanied this minor to the hospital via ambulance after his accident.”

  “Accident? Accident? Like he fell down the goddamn stairs?”

  She sat back to give me space. “Sorry. My brain is still waking up. I didn't mean to offend.”

  I flipped open the file. A photograph of Davey struck me deaf and dumb. He held something. Even though it was cropped from the picture, I knew it was baby Arthur. Davey was laughing. Joy twinkled poetically in his eyes. His smile held no pretense. No lies. No fear.

  I started to choke.

  Literally.

  Vanessa whapped me on the back. I coughed and nothing came out.

  “Swallowed air wrong,” I said.

  She approached the door a
nd gently requested of the guard: “Bring us some coffee, please.” He hastened to obey.

  I squinted at a swarm of color in the pic. “What's behind Davey?”

  “He's an artist, well, an aspiring one. That's a piece of work from the school art show.”

  I remembered my dream wherein his body was ravaged on a canvas. Chills struck my spine. I signed the paperwork without looking at the picture or the words.

  “How are you?” she said.

  “I don't think coffee will cut it,” I said. Vanessa sucked in a quick breath and went quiet. Sarakas had been telling tales of my alcoholism. I specified, “Breakfast would help.”

  Before comment could be made on that, another doctor entered.

  “Name,” I demanded.

  “Morning, ladies. I'm Dr. Weber.”

  “You may proceed. What are we doing for him?”

  “Due to the extent of David's injuries and the unfortunate way he acquired them, in addition to the Social Longevity Incentive they passed in April, we don't advise surgery for individuals with less than a seventy-five percent chance of survival. He has no living relatives willing to make this decision, so we defer to you.”

  “What? Me?”

  “Yep, you. As primary agent on scene accompanying and therefore acquiring a minor, you are the next of kin. Thus, what the hell do you want us to do? We're looking at a lengthy and extremely painful recovery, not to mention I don't believe his spirit is sufficiently prepared to tolerate the shock and discomfort of his accident. Do we continue or abstain until signs of improvement?”

  “Accident! Signs of improvement?”

  “There's always a chance his vitals will improve on their own. With God's Grace, he may sufficiently stabilize, making it appropriate to continue.”

  “Grace?” I croaked. “Appropriate to continue?”

  Dr. Weber smiled. “You haven't been to the hospital in a while, have you?”

  “Not while conscious.”