A Girl Called Badger

TWO



Wilson went to his room and opened a medical text.

Reed wanted him to study cardiac rhythms but his eyes glided over the pages like a lazy summer breeze. He carved a line into the wood of his desk with a fingernail and thought about the earthen smell of Badger’s skin and the scar over her navel.

He found Reed in a small room packed with books, his teacher’s face covered with an emerald glow as he read from a display. The dim light and smell of ancient pages always reminded Wilson of mushrooms.

“I have a question, sir.”

Father Reed scratched his beard and didn’t look up. “Yes?”

“The situation with Airman Chen ...”

Reed smiled to himself. “Yes, what about it?”

“I’d like to know what’s wrong with her.”

“She experienced a tonic-clonic seizure, not idiopathic, but the result of a power connection issue.”

“I’m sorry––what kind of issue?”

“Power connection. That’s what the display indicated. However, between you, me, and the wall I have no idea what it means.” Reed waved his hands at the books on the walls. “Look at all of these volumes in agriculture, animal husbandry, biology, or medicine. Not one manual for the treatment scanner.”

“But if her problem is medical, can’t we do something?”

“It’s not actually a problem with her body,” said Reed. He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “I was going to wait until you’ve had more medical training, but I suppose now it’s better to tell you.” He pointed at the large display on the wall. “What do you see?”

“The normal perimeter map. Those two dots are Brown and West in the foothills. That cluster in the center is Station. That pair is Zhang and–”

“Harden, exactly. But how do we get this information?”

“Radar?”

“No, but electromagnetics are involved in the signal. On the twelfth anniversary of a citizen’s birth, each is taken to the Tombs, given a sleeping tonic, and passes through the name-giving ceremony.”

“Of course.”

“Each returns bandaged from surgery. Throughout this person’s life, he or she will always carry several scars. The longest is on the left arm.”

“I don’t see how this applies to Badg– ... Airman Chen.”

“It’s central to her problem, but what I’m about to tell you must be kept absolutely secret. During the name-giving ceremony, objects are implanted beneath the scars. It’s all underground and I’ve never seen the surgery myself but I know the objects are there. My teacher taught me about them before he passed on.”

“But why? What use are they?”

“The myth about the name-giving ceremony is that it makes us stronger, faster, more attractive to the opposite sex, et cetera and ad nauseum. These are mostly old wive’s tales in my opinion. Specifically to Airman Chen, the scanner notes a ‘power connection’ problem and that refers to a problem with the objects. As I mentioned, I’ve treated it before.”

Wilson looked at the ancient books for a moment, then stared at Reed.

“If this foreign object is the problem, why not remove it?”

Reed pretended to search the pockets of his green jumpsuit. “Did I lose that Book of Ultimate Answers To Apprentice Questions?” He rubbed the top of the display screen with a finger and made it squeak. “Any surgery on the left arm can initiate cardiac arrest. It’s not in that medical text you just grabbed but I know we’ve talked about it.”

“Sorry. She wasn’t born here, maybe–”

“None of the other tribal-born ever had issues with the ceremony.”

“Maybe old records in the database–”

“Listen, I’ve been leader of this Station for more summers than you’ve been alive. The database has nothing pertinent, and in any case I’ve treated this condition before. You’d better return to your studies and forget about the whole incident.”

“Why?”

“Because suddenly everything is different.” He pushed a finger into Wilson’s chest. “She’s gotten under your skin.”



WILSON WAITED A FEW days for the right moment. He avoided the topic of Badger’s seizures, worked hard on his tasks, and helped weed and water crops in the wide fields of hemp and corn. In addition to studying medicine, tribal dialects, and in Wilson’s mind just about everything useless under the sun, he had to spend time in all the professions of the village.

Normally he welcomed the farm chores in the early morning. The constant motion of his arms into the fresh earth, his skin prickly from the warm sun and trousers wet from dew––all of this gave him time to think. Now he wished he could slam the door on his wandering thoughts and swallow the key.

He thought about the soft skin on her arms and the way she’d laughed at him. Did she think about him the same way? It was more likely she’d fall in love with a caterpillar. He found a black and orange striped one resting on a tomato leaf and squashed it angrily, then lifted the hoe and worked up a furious sweat. Wilson, the bumbling slave to everyone and master of none. What made the situation more embarrassing was that priests never took a partner from the village. They always studied the dialects and always partnered with someone from the outside. Apprentices in other professions also found tribal partners if they had the means. “By hook or by crook,” as Father Reed joked. Wilson found absolutely nothing funny about it. He imagined getting stuck with some tattooed witch who thought soap was something you drank from a pot. The fact that tribals had killed his father didn’t make the idea any more attractive.

Father Reed went for a walk after the mid-day meal and left Wilson alone with the database. He already had the access code and pass from months ago. He activated the database screen and started the search function.



db query: Bryant Chen A1C



Six entries appeared:



CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 03.21.2002

DOI 03.21.2051

DOD 12.30.2063



CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 10.14.2065

DOI 10.14.2077

DOD 08.02.2117



CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 11.28.2128

DOI 11.28.2150

DOD 02.18.2190



CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 12.01.2213

DOI 12.01.2225

DOD 05.07.2251



CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 03.04.2262

DOI 03.04.2274

DOD 06.20.2263



CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB UNKNOWN

DOI 04.23.2308

DOD ––



Wilson knew the last section was Badger’s. April 23 was her birthday and her name-giving ceremony––the ‘DOI’––had been four years ago, when she was twelve. The earliest entry was the original Bryant Chen and member of the founders.

It was incredibly odd that parents gave their children names in the old days. How did that work? Did they just pick a name at random? He touched the screen and expanded the data. The medical history of the founder and each namesake included dates and descriptions of various illnesses.

Wilson abruptly jabbed the power button and stumbled straight out of the bunker. He covered his eyes from the bright sunlight and spat on the ground.

Father Reed had lied to him. The founder and all of his namesakes had died within a month of the first seizure.



LONG AFTER THE SUN had dropped behind the mountains, Wilson lay under a nut pine on the slopes of Old Man. The low branches hid him from view and he was high enough to see the entire valley. Most people avoided the mountain because of the Tombs and the ghost stories, but Wilson enjoyed the solitude. He didn’t believe in spirits or children’s fairy tales. Usually he slept or watched the clouds creep along, lazy and oblivious. Today he listened to the trill of nightjars and watched a pair of the brown birds fly together in the cool evening sky.

He’d be needed for some random chore sooner or later, so Wilson took a long and indirect route back to the village. A long-limbed boy with red hair squatted near the rectory and used a paring knife on a stick. Wood shavings sprayed the bare ground as Wilson approached.

“Robb, what are you doing?”

“Huh?” The boy looked up. “Finally! I’ve been to hell and back looking for you.”

“What is it now?”

“If you’re going to get mad just forget it.” Robb dropped the stick and walked away.

“I’m sorry. What’s the message, please?”

Robb spun around. “Oh! You’re on duty tonight! With your girlfriend! GAA ha ha!” He ran as fast as he could. Wilson threw the stick but missed.

“I’m off the rotation!”

Father Reed was supposed to change the schedule so Wilson could study nocturnal pests in the orchard. He hadn’t done night duty for weeks but it looked like tonight was different. Robb wouldn’t lie about something like that.

It was probably for the best he hadn’t chased the boy––half a dozen people were watching.



WILSON PULLED THE BOX of hunting gear from under his bunk. He donned a thick woolen coat and strapped a leather belt around his waist. A six-inch blade slid into the left scabbard and a smaller knife the right.

Inside Armory Mast handed him a crossbow and a rucksack containing a packet of bolts, a water skin, dried food, and a wool blanket. The big teenager slid a wooden mask across the table to Wilson.

“Take this one. It’s my favorite,” said Mast.

Wilson stared at the sharp teeth and yellow eyes painted on the black wood.

“However,” said Mast, “The look on your ugly mug would stop a bear in his tracks or kill a chipmunk outright, so just leave it.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s only night duty. You can sleep and Badger won’t say much. Just don’t touch her accidentally on purpose,” said Mast.

Wilson frowned. “Tell me something I don’t know, Captain Obvious.”

“Okay. The difference between girls and–“

“Shut up before I ram something in your eye. Like my fist.”

Mast laughed. “Anyway, Badger has spirit. She just couldn’t handle me.”

“That broken nose says different.”

“No,” said Mast. “I mean, she couldn’t ‘handle’ me. Too much of a man. Get it? Yeah? Are you getting me?”

“Oh, I get it––you’re an idiot.”

Wilson grabbed the hunting mask and walked out.

“Just a joke, friend! Don’t tell Badger I said that. Okay? Wilson? I never said that! Wilson! Ha ha ha, my friend, Wilson!”

Mast banged his fist on the table and rattled all the tools and knives.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispered.



BADGER STOOD OUTSIDE ARMORY in the thick wool and leather of duty gear, crossbow slung over a shoulder and hunting mask hanging from her belt.

She’d tied a feather in her hair with red string and it made Wilson curious, but not enough to risk a punch in the mouth.

“Ready?” she asked.

Wilson nodded.

Neither spoke as they walked south through Station. It was early twilight and the villagers chatted in small groups or carried tools from the fields. Children played around the gardens and in the grassy mounds and hollows.

Wilson followed ten paces behind Badger. He tried to step exactly where she stepped, for no reason other than to keep his mind off the database. They descended through the high granite walls of the pass and followed a winding trail around boulders and fallen trees. Pine branches swished in a cold gust of wind and Wilson pulled his cap tighter around his ears. He thought about things he could say that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot.

Badger sniffed. “Where’s your cedar oil?”

“My what?”

Badger left the trail. She returned with two fistfuls of green, oval leaves.

“Rub these over your face, hands, and everything.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been hunting before, right? It’s to cover the scent.”

“But I don’t smell,” said Wilson.

“Maybe not to people.”

The dirt path wound back and forth through a dozen switchbacks to the deep woodland foothills. The path split east and west at a dead oak. Wilson liked to think of the tree as a giant bear who used her gray limbs and claws to protect the pass.

Badger cupped hands around her mouth and hooted three times. A faint, similar answer came from the forest. Wilson followed Badger as the path curved east through the forest and down the flanks of hills.

No moon hung in the dark, overcast sky but Wilson’s eyes gradually adjusted. After a kilometer the path followed a stream to a wide clearing in the trees. Badger stopped before they left the tree line and hooted again. The response came from up the slope and a minute later two shapes separated from the trees. The men whispered a few words to Badger, shook her hand, and left.

Badger clicked her tongue softly and left the path. She crept under a blackened, fallen log and disappeared. Wilson removed his rucksack and unslung his crossbow. He squeezed through a tight opening under the log into a tiny earthen chamber. The dark, circular space was only big enough for two people to crouch together or lie flat. The fallen log and sawn beams above their heads supported a warm ceiling of sod and leaves. At the front was a small opening. A person could lie flat in the dirt and have a bit of light and a view of the tree line and clearing. On the left and right were other gaps between the ceiling and earth for watching the sides.

Wilson pushed his rucksack to the back and slid across the dirt to the front opening. He set the crossbow in front and checked the loaded bolt.

“Quiet,” whispered Badger.

“Sorry.”

Wilson lay still and watched the clearing. The breeze lifted waves of tree limbs and scattered pine needles on the hillside.

Badger whispered something.

“What?” he whispered back.

Badger sighed and pulled him closer, her mouth dangerously close to his ear.

“Rain.”

“Not in the forecast,” he murmured.

“Wait–”

She said something he didn’t understand but it didn’t sound positive.

“Sorry?”

Badger slid backwards and quietly opened her pack. She put something small and soft into his hand. Her fingers were out of her gloves and warm.

“Eat.”

Wilson put the leaves into his mouth and chewed. The spearmint tasted sharp and fresh.

“You got Simpson to put me on night duty,” he said.

“Glad you figured that out,” she whispered, “Now, genius, what about my problem?”

Wilson leaned close to Badger’s ear. Her thick black hair smelled of pine tar and earth. Of leaves and sweat.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

Badger jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “You’re either lying or the worst priest ever. You had days to find out.”

Wilson rubbed his side. “The founder with your name and all the descending namesakes had it.”

“Every single one? I don’t believe it. What happened to them?”

Wilson shifted uncomfortably in the small space.

Badger grabbed his arm. “Talk!”

Both she and Wilson leaned together and banged upper lips and teeth painfully. Badger held her mouth and kicked Wilson in the leg.

“Sorry!”

“Watch what you’re doing!” Badger mumbled through her fingers.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Quiet,” she whispered. “Look there.”

A few drops splattered from the tree branches.

“It’s just rain,” he said, and touched his lips. They felt swollen but in the dark he couldn’t see any blood.

“No,” said Badger softly. “In the clearing.”

Wilson strained to see through the faint drizzle.

“Still don’t–”

She pushed his chin left and pointed. Wilson saw a dark shape across the clearing, a few hundred yards away and barely noticeable against the trees.

“Tribals,” said Badger.

“Cat’s teeth, how can you see that far?”

Badger kept her eyes on the clearing. “Smell that? A cooking fire. Only priests or tribals would be that stupid and you’re right here.”

Wilson snorted. “Thanks for the kind words.”

“You’re welcome. By the way, when does the moon rise?”

“At midnight. That’s still a few hours away.”

“Then we don’t have much time. Come on.”

Wilson stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I just want to take a look,” said Badger. She checked her crossbow and bolts. “Stay here if you’re scared. You might shoot me by accident anyway.”

Wilson’s ears burned. “I’ve hunted before. If I shoot you, it’s on purpose.”

“So be it, killer.”

They slid out of the tight exit and crouched over damp pine needles down the hillside. After crossing the stream, the pair circled east, using the forest as cover.

Downwind of the camp, the smells of unwashed humans and wood smoke filled Wilson’s nose. He looked over the clearing to the right and bumped into Badger’s backside.

“Sorry!”

“Stay here and be quiet,” she hissed.

Badger set her crossbow in the high grass and strapped on a wooden mask with green eyes. She unsheathed her hunting knife and continued alone through the field. Wilson quickly lost sight of her and stared at the shadowy figure squatting just inside the forest.

A bob-white called from the middle of the field. Nightjars buzzed and chirped as they flew low over the grass and grabbed insects from the air.

Something cracked near the shadow-figure. It stood and Wilson’s heart took a few extra beats at once. A small black and brown shape leaped into the first and pushed it to the ground, startling the bob-white. With a flash of white-patched wings it flew toward the stream. A few seconds later the small shape moved back into the trees.

The seed-heavy grass bent with the breeze and a drop of rain rolled down the back of Wilson’s neck. He wondered if Badger needed help when the grass parted and she appeared. With a hand covered in blood she slid up the hunting mask.

“Three around a fire,” she said.

“Are you hurt?”

Badger shook her head and reclaimed her crossbow. She stuck a foot in the rope stirrup, pulled hard on the reloading strap with both hands, and placed a bolt in the track. Wilson adjusted his hunting mask and followed her through the field and into the forest.

Three men in yellow buckskin squatted around a campfire. Their heads were shaved except for a long topknot. A black tattoo of three entwined circles marked their faces like a spiral of thorns.

A few words about a girl in the tribal dialect made Wilson flush behind his mask. Smoked curled from the speaker’s corn pipe and he laughed with a high-pitched chitter. The man nearest Badger held a water skin and the face of the last tribal had been terribly burned in the past.

Wilson bit his lower lip as a girl sat up from a pile of furs and asked something in the dialect. A nasty bruise turned one eye purple and her red-blonde hair was badly tangled. Drinker and Scarface cursed the girl and Corn Pipe threw a stick. Wilson thought about these animals murdering his father. He jerked up his crossbow and aimed through the sights.

The trigger release clicked on Badger’s crossbow. A bolt with black-and-white fletching smacked through the drinking skin and into Drinker’s chest.

Scarface turned his head and stared into the darkness for half a second, before Wilson shot him in the neck. The metal-pointed bolt ripped through the man’s neck with a spray of blood.

The girl screamed. Corn Pipe let his namesake tumble through his fingers as his comrades twisted on the ground. A pair of demonic faces rose from the tall grass at the edge of the firelight. The desperate tribal fumbled with a holster on his belt.

Wilson threw the knife in his left hand, barely missing Corn Pipe’s head, and sprinted toward the tribal.

The frantic Corn Pipe drew a long-barreled pistol but a bolt from Badger whacked into his bicep. The tribal dropped the weapon as Wilson slammed into his soft midsection.

Both flew into the brush. Wilson thrust his knife into the man’s ribcage, pulled it out, and stabbed again and again.

“I think he’s dead,” said Badger, a minute later.

Wilson stood up. Blood covered his hands and his heart pounded. His fingers shook as he cleaned his knife on the dead man’s trousers.

The girl whimpered under the lean-to. A white-fletched bolt stuck from her left bicep. Wilson came closer and she screamed. He pulled off his hunting mask and held his hands out.

“No hurt you! Help.”

Wilson realized the bolt in her arm had come from his crossbow. He rummaged through the belongings of the dead tribals while Badger looted the bodies. In a leather bag he found a pair of hand-cutters and cloth for a bandage.

“Don’t move.”

He used the cutters to snap the wooden shaft then wrapped the girl’s arm tightly. Her hands were bound with rope and Wilson carefully cut through the hemp fibers. She wore a ripped, red-patterned dress that looked too flimsy even for summer. Wilson draped a blanket around her shoulders.

Badger hissed in pain. Wilson turned to see her grappling with Drinker on the ground. She knocked away Drinker’s hands and sliced him across the throat. When she stood up Wilson saw a blade sticking from the palm of her left hand.

“What happened?”

He touched her arm but Badger stepped away. Blood dripped from her fingers.

“It’s nothing. I got careless.”

He reached for her wrist and this time she didn’t pull back. The sharp point stuck three inches from the back of her hand.

“You’re lucky,” said Wilson. “It’s a short blade and didn’t cut the ligaments. Now wait for a second and don’t move.”

He looked in one of the tribal packs for clean fabric. A yelp came from Badger and Wilson saw her drop the blood-streaked knife on the ground.

“What?” she said. “I wasn’t going to walk around like that.”

Wilson shook his head and sighed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

He wrapped Badger’s hand then grabbed the few sacks of gear lying around the campsite. The girl still shivered under the blanket where he had left her.

Wilson knelt beside her. “Will you come with us?”

She looked up with her bruised face and nodded.

Wilson took the girl by the hand and the three moved as quietly as possible through the forest and back across the stream. His night vision took several minutes to return. The girl with her oversized boots constantly stumbled and Wilson put his arm around her waist.

They slid inside the underground guard post as the rain splattered and foamed into a wild downpour. The shelter was warm and dry, but they were squeezed as tight as three cats. Badger’s ribs pressed against Wilson’s belly as she breathed in and out, in and out, and the tribal girl squirmed at his shoulder blades. Wilson rested his head on the dirt floor and thought about nasty nocturnal pests in the garden.

“Something wrong?” asked Badger.

“Ah ... no,” said Wilson. “I’m just a little hot.”

“Get some air, then.”

She brushed her chest against Wilson to move closer to the front opening and that only made it worse.

Wilson sighed and wondered if the tribal girl was hungry. He took a water-skin and piece of dried meat from his rucksack. The girl chewed on the venison happily and Wilson slid forward to join Badger at the tiny window.

“Were we followed?”

Badger shook her head.

Water dripped from the branches long after the storm had blown through. Wilson knew the half-moon should be out––that was the forecast––but the sky was dark with clouds. The girl shivered under her blankets. Wilson handed the girl his woolen cap and she pulled it down to her ears.

She spoke, hesitating over the right words. “Stay in here?”

“Quiet,” whispered Badger. “Dogs.”

Wilson squeezed next to her with his crossbow but couldn’t see anything. Badger pushed his arm to the right and corrected the aim. Her bow clicked and a dog yelped down the slope. She reloaded and Wilson squinted into the dark. All he could make out were a few shadows moving along the trail. He aimed for the center shadow, held his breath, and pulled the trigger. Whether he’d struck it or not, the dark shape vanished.

He twisted onto his back in the tight space and held the crossbow firmly in front of him. He put his foot into the rope stirrup at the end of the bow, extended his leg, and pulled hard on the reload strap. The bowstring and curved prod bent back and locked. Wilson squirmed onto his belly and shoved another bolt on the track.

“They’re following the girl,” murmured Badger. “She’s got a strong smell.” She raised her crossbow and shot a bolt into the yelping dark. “There goes the last one.”

Wilson rubbed his nose. “I’ll take your word for it.”

After a quarter of an hour, an owl hooted three times. Badger cupped her hands and copied the call, then slid out of the shelter with Wilson and the girl.

A team of four hunters led by Badger’s teacher Simpson stood under the dripping branches.

Simpson shook Wilson’s hand. “What’s the status?”

“We found a group of tribals with this prisoner.”

“I see a prisoner, but where are the tribals?”

Wilson pointed to the trees across the clearing. “Dead. We also shot a few dogs not long ago. Not certain if the pack is still around. But right now, this girl and Airman Chen need medical treatment.”

“I’m fine,” said Badger.

“I don’t know anything about medicine,” said Simpson. “If Ensign Wilson wants you looked at, you get looked at.”



AFTER A LONG HIKE through the rain they made it to the steps of the rectory. Wilson knocked and opened the outer door. As they walked through the passage the inner door clanked and hissed open.

Father Reed rubbed his eyes and yawned. “My head just touched the pillow, and now this. Get ready, I’m turning on the lights.”

Wilson and Badger covered their eyes. The tribal girl yelped and shaded hers as the entrance tunnel flashed into brilliant white.

Father Reed looked over the three of them and sucked air through his teeth.

“Come in, come in.”

Wilson squinted through his fingers and followed his teacher into the brightly-lit medical room. He watched Reed press a few buttons at the side of the black examining table.

“I’ve never seen such shaggy cubs,” he said. “Did you forget that singular characteristic of rain––it makes other things wet?”

As his eyes adjusted to the light Wilson saw the state of his female companions. The young girl’s wet hair stuck flat to her face and head. Scratches covered her face and the left side had swollen with a purple and red bruise.

Badger leaned against a wall, her face and braids smeared with mud and pine needles. The rain had soaked her leathers and washed away only a little of the red-black tribal blood that covered her jacket. She protected her left hand in a pocket and rested her right on a knife in her belt. Wilson was exhausted but her eyes were still quick and dark. She watched everything in the room: a display screen, the table, Father Reed, the palm of her right hand, the tribal girl’s boots, all the silver medical tools. She was either nervous as a hare or ready to fight. Maybe both. Wilson realized he had no idea what to tell her about the database and her sickness.

“Ensign!” Reed shouted. “Are you dreaming again or do you have a concussion?”

“No, sir! Neither, sir!”

“Then allow me the pleasure of inquisitive repetition. What happened?”

“We found a gang of tribals with this girl. Not a local group from the look of them. One of my bolts accidentally struck her arm. She has multiple contusions to the left face and minor lacerations. I didn’t have time for a complete assessment.”

Reed waved a hand at the examining table. “Can the girl speak? Get her up here.”

“Yes, I speak,” she said.

The girl stretched out on the table. When Reed replaced the wet blankets with a dry one Wilson saw a pair of bruised and scratched legs.

“What’s her name?” asked Reed as he adjusted the blanket.

“Um ...”

“Minamakitotosimew,” said the girl.

Reed pursed his lips. “Riiight. I think we’ll call you Mina.”

“It is fine, too.”

The priest unwrapped the bloody bandage tied around the girl’s arm. “Wilson, make yourself useful as well as ornamental and get vital signs.”

Wilson pulled wires from the side of the slab. He placed silver discs above both collarbones and wrapped a blue membrane around the girl’s right bicep.

“Turn up the heat element also.”

Wilson pressed a switch on the wall then passed a display to his teacher.

Father Reed touched the screen. He moved and expanded boxes with his fingers. “She wasn’t born here so there’s a limited amount of data. Vital signs are good, but that’s obvious since she walked here. We’ll keep tracking them.” On the screen he passed over minor injuries and highlighted the arm impaled with the crossbow bolt. “Now, Mina––tell me where it hurts the most.”

Wilson led Badger across the room to a white counter with two sinks. He searched through numbered white cabinets and found a large porcelain jug. He plugged the sinks and poured equal amounts of water into each.

“What are you doing?”

Wilson glanced at her. “Making clean water.”

“But that water is clean.”

Wilson slid open a drawer and selected a brown paper packet. “Not clean enough.”

“Clear water is clean water,” said Badger.

“Just trust me.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“Trust you.” She stared at him. Wilson turned red and dropped the packet. He bent over to pick it up.

“Now watch.”

Wilson poured white powder into the left basin. He dipped his fingers in soap and washed his hands on the right side. After drying his hands he soaked them in the cloudy water on the left.

“Make way!” Reed washed in the right basin and sterilized his hands in the left.

“Okay, your turn,” said Wilson.

He unwrapped the bloody cloth around Badger’s hand. The wound through her hand was an inch wide.

“This is going to hurt,” he said.

Wilson dunked her hand in the soapy water. Badger didn’t make a sound, but Wilson felt the hand twitch slightly. He washed and dried Badger’s hand then bandaged it with white cloth.

“Don’t use it for a week and keep it clean and dry. I have some tea that will make it feel better.”

She nodded and watched his face. Wilson still held the soft fingers of her hand and she didn’t pull away.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said.

Badger twisted her mouth, trying not to smile. It didn’t work, and she burst into giggles.

“You should see your face!”

Metal tools clinked from across the room.

“Wilson! I need help over here,” said Reed.

He let go of Badger’s hand and darted to the black table. Mina’s eyes were closed. The priest held her arm in one hand and a scalpel in the other.

“The point isn’t deep. I used some local sedation,” said Reed. He leaned over the arm with the tiny blade. “Pour that compound here when I tell you.”

A clank came from the entrance tunnel. Wilson turned and Badger had gone.