The Ward

11


9:30 P.M., SATURDAY


I don’t know what to do. . . .

It’s been more than four hours since the raid. Afterward I rehydrated Aven with some soup—she couldn’t keep it down at first. Then she could, and it seemed like she was feeling better, too. Now though, even in sleep, her breaths are short and erratic. And when I take her hand, it feels clammy in my own. Cold.

But the Tank—

If I go, I’ve still got a chance at meeting with this “Officer Cory” guy. Since he’s not really with the DI, he won’t know I just met with Dunn—no reason for him not to give me the green he promised. And if there’s a reward for passing on information about him to Dunn, so much the better. Aven and I will need more to make it to the end of the month, especially if she’s sick.

But as I move to her bedside and feel her cheeks—I don’t like it. They strike me as too warm.

I inhale and rub the bridge of my nose, racking my head for an answer.

I’m only sixteen.

How am I supposed to tell when she needs the doctor? If we had the money, I’d call him every time her temp hit 98.7. But we don’t. . . . I have to make the calls. I have to tell “bad” from “worse.” Right now, I don’t think this is the worst. She’s sleeping—that’s gotta say something.

If I stay, all I can do is make her comfortable: feed her daggers, get her water.

But if I go, we’ll have the money to pay for the doctor by the time I get back.

I don’t like this plan.

Leaving her alone turns my stomach like swallowing motor oil. Squeezing Aven’s hand, gentle, I head to the bathroom. If I’m going to leave, I should at least not look like I almost died.

I pull a paste pill from the cabinet and brush my teeth; no need for water. The foaming action is activated by the saliva in the mouth, and when I’m done, all I have to do is take a minty gulp. It occurs to me that I should probably clean my head wound before leaving, so it doesn’t get infected. After all, we don’t even have enough money for one sick person in this apartment, much less two.

Using some filtered rainwater, I soak a tiny corner of our washcloth, readying myself for the damage. I don’t particularly want to look at myself. From the barbed sting going on above my eyebrows, my face feels like the kind of ugly that’s best left in nightmares.

Good thing we don’t have a real mirror.

On the wall, hanging from a nail, we keep a tin lid. Aven pulled it off an empty coffee tin way back when, and it works all right so long as we keep from denting it.

I bring my temple closer, but it’s hard to see for myself. Rarely do I find myself wishing someone was around to take care of me; now is one of those times. And it would be especially nice if that someone were named Derek.

Oh, how his girlfriend would love that.

The thought makes me queasy, so I dismiss it, and squint to examine the wound.

Where the brick got me—the largest of the cuts by my temple—the blood’s crusted. I wipe away the dried, flaky reddish-brown bits. After a few dabs, I have to pull back. Not from pain . . . from surprise. I’d expected the two flaps of separated skin to be, well, separate, but already they’ve joined together. Formed a seam. Only in a few spots, where the slice was deepest, can I see tender, pink flesh underneath.

I’ve always been a fast healer, it’s true. This is really fast, though. Not that I’m complaining . . .

I toss the cloth onto the laundry pile and walk back quietly, careful not to wake Aven, then look around for something to wear. Normally, I’d just sport my red leather suit since the festivities usually get rolling after the race, but that’s at Derek’s. And destroyed.

After a few minutes of scrambling, lifting trunks, and tossing aside pants that haven’t fit my butt for years, I find my outfit for tonight’s soiree. In a lovely pile, accompanied by only a few dust balls. Perfect.

Black tank, check.

Grommet-and-buckle black leather vest, check.

Tan suede leggings, check.

Spare canteen, check, as Dunn now has my other one. I run to the bathroom, turn the spigot, and fill it only halfway. Don’t want to over ration.

Back in the main room, I find my Hessians: check, and check. Last, I throw on my utility belt.

Knowing that I’m going to be cold for the walk, I buckle on both my sleeves. A jacket’s around here . . . somewhere . . . but I’d just take it off when I got to the Tank anyway. Then I’d lose it. Better to be cold for a little while.

One last time, I look to Aven. On her wrist is the cuffcomm I’ve given her, just in case. I reach under the bed for the orange bottle and take out another Dilameth, which I leave on the bedside table with the water.

“Feathers?” I whisper, kneeling closer.

Her eyes stay shut, but she musters a “hmm” so I know she’s heard me.

“I’m going to the Tank, but I’ll be back soon. You have the comm. Don’t forget?”

She tilts her chin, up then down, an even weaker response than the last.

I stand up, walk to the door. Hope she doesn’t open her eyes just then. Leaving her hurts, physically hurts. In more ways than I can pin. Guilt twists itself in my gut, insists that I’m not doing the right thing . . . going to a party, of all places. Even though I’m going to help us.

But that’s not even the worst of it.

My imaginings, they’re what do me in. Every time I step out the front door, I picture what coming back could look like. Because if my worst memory is of the time I found Aven alone but alive at the sickhouse, I can think of only one thing that’s worse—finding her dead in our home.

Alone.