The Ward

17


12:30 A.M., SUNDAY


My insides turn to water when I see her—I’m going to be sick.

Tubes snake around Aven’s body, laid out too still on the small hospital bed. A curtain divides the room, bluish lights buzz overhead, and the smell . . . it’s the smell of dying. Of people waiting to die. That alone shakes me.

“You have five minutes with her.” The nurse speaks to us like Aven’s not even here. “It’s a good thing you were able to bring her so quickly. This is the most aggressively growing tumor I’ve ever seen. Between the time she was admitted, up until about thirty minutes ago, its diameter increased a full six millimeters. Seems to have slowed now, though, which bodes well. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She shakes her head and, looking over her glasses, adds, “Dr. Cory said this is primary onset?”

Primary onset . . . Callum said that she wasn’t sick before tonight? Must not have wanted to raise any questions, like what she was doing in a club with a baseball-sized tumor pressed up against her skull.

“Yes,” I lie. No reason to change the story and raise even more eyebrows. And her situation is already strange enough.

“Ren . . .” Aven moans from her bed.

With a nod the nurse makes for the door. “Five minutes,” she reminds us, which makes me want to throw a dart at her face.

Ter and I walk to opposite sides of her bed. “Shhh,” I say, and I take Aven’s hand in mine. “Don’t talk.”

“You don’t need to talk anyway. We’ve got Ren in the room,” Ter jokes, trying to lighten the mood. He hasn’t seen her in years, but it doesn’t seem like it matters. His shoulders are hunched, tense. He looks nearly as anxious as I do.

Though Aven’s chest rises and falls like it should, I can see that the air tank at her side is doing all the work. Her eyes stay closed, but I hope against hope she can hear me again, that her mind’s clearer than it was back in the transport sub.

“I’m sorry we fought. . . .” she says. Pale blond lashes flutter and she opens her eyes slightly, tilts her head in my direction. “Forgive me?”

The question undoes me. Tomorrow they’re going to cut her open and she might die, and she’s asking forgiveness. That hard lump I’d been fighting off for the last hour finally breaks its hold.

Don’t lose it, I tell myself. If she sees how worried you are, she might not want the surgery.

Too bad there’s no pep talk in the world I could give myself right now that would do any good. I push my palms into my eyes, find water there, and choke on a sob I can’t hold back. “There’s nothing to forgive, silly.” I sniff, my nose suddenly crying too. “We’re sisters. Sisters fight. That’s, like, half the fun. We should celebrate, actually. I think that was our first fight ever. It’s finally official. Really, we should get a certificate of authenticity or something.” I laugh and wipe away the salty wet from my cheeks.

Aven giggles, then stops ’cause it makes her breathing too hard.

I smile, kiss her forehead. She always liked my sense of humor. If there’s anything I’ve ever been good at, it’s making her laugh. “They’re going to make you better tomorrow,” I tell her.

“I’m nervous. . . .”

“Don’t be, Feathers—”

The woman in white returns, owning the place in just a few steps. “Time for meds,” she crows. “Which means it’s time for you two to be off. This is the critical care unit.” She raises an eyebrow and taps her cuffcomm.

“No way, it’s only been five minutes, lady. Just a few more, please?” I try to leave the edge out of my voice. This woman is a gatekeeper. I should be buttering her up, but right now I’m just no good at faking nice.

“Visiting hours have been over since eleven. You only got those five minutes because Dr. Cory said it’d be good for the patient,” the nurse says, not budging. “Besides, this one needs her rest, what with her surgery tomorrow.” She prepares a dose of some liquid that looks like it’s going to get fed through one of the dozens of tubes Aven’s hooked up to. When the nurse sees her slight crinkle of fear, she says lightly, “Three injections. One for the inflammation, one to help her sleep, and one’s a pain reliever. All good things.”

All those meds . . .

Within seconds, Aven’s zonked out.

“When can I come back?” I ask, still holding her hand.

“Like I said, this is the critical care unit, so visiting hours are limited. If she stabilizes, you can see her more often,” she says without answering my question.

“So . . . when can I come back?”

“Right before her surgery tomorrow, if you like.” The nurse steers us through the room and out the door, her hand on each of our backs. “Now, off you go.”


Ter’s Omni barely sways as he brings her dockside. “Drive you home?” he offers, standing over it, ever the good guy.

I didn’t notice just how snazzy the carrot was before, being half-dead and all, but now I do—fancy-pants nav system. Autostabilizing props. I nod my thanks and climb in, sinking back into the red leather interior.

“The ’Racks?” he asks.

I swallow my surprise—didn’t think Ter knew the ’Racks existed, much less where they’re located. He’s never been; I’ve never invited him. Though we were both in the orphanage, once he landed himself a rich dad, we grew up very differently. Doubt his pops would’ve wanted him hanging around the ’Racks, and no doubt Ter woulda felt mighty out of place there too.

“Mad Ave is fine, actually. I can walk home from there,” I answer, thinking of the address in my bra. Callum’s place is right off the main drag. I know he said he could only help if I brought a sample . . . but I have to try. “Just want to pick up a bite to eat,” I add.

“Mmmm . . .” Ter grumbles and pats his belly. “Jealous.”

I’m jealous too. I’m jealous of the lie I just told. My stomach tightens, but I know it’ll be a while before I can get my hands on some grub.

As Ter steers the mobile east though the gutterway, I let my mind wander for distractions, watching the underwater city as it rolls tape. History, right in front of us. Deep in the silty, muddy canal, we see just the torso of a sculpture. One of his arms holds up what I think is supposed to be fire, because he’s just stolen it. That’s how the story goes, at least. Supposedly, we could brush him down and he’d be gold underneath. I never believed it.

Then, when I look around again, we’ve hit Mad Ave.

“Stop here, if you would,” I tell Terrence. I want to ask if he’s planning on visiting tomorrow, but I don’t. Don’t want him to feel obligated or nothing.

Ter gazes wistfully out at the boardwalk. “Eat some dumplings for me, will ya? I’d totally come with if I weren’t positive that my dad’s been having a two-hour heart attack, wondering where I’ve been.”

I laugh, but I can’t help wondering what that’d be like, having someone at home worrying about me. The one person wondering where I am is lying in a hospital bed. It’d be nice though.

Maybe. Nah. The word parents sours in my head almost as soon as I think it. Better off without. Can’t be worrying about any more people dying on me.

“Extra on the grease, just for you,” I say with a short wave, wishing I were telling the truth.

The roof clicks closed and Ter smiles his good-bye and the Omni spins out along the canal. As it disappears into the dull, graying morning I glance at the address, now wrinkled and scrappy: 51 Rough Block and Mad Ave #1A.

Callum Pace. He may have lied, but he also saved my sister.

I have to trust in him, for Aven’s sake. Much as I don’t like it.