I swallow. Nod.
“We’ll prepare for the handover.” The apology in his voice even sounds real. “At this stage, we need to be considering your respite care. Things can move incredibly quickly at this point – it’s best to be prepared as much as possible, to minimize any stress for you. You’ll need to contact your key worker as soon as possible. Your situation is unusual, but the rules still apply. You’ll need to go in as soon as those final symptoms we discussed start to happen.”
My eyes squeeze closed. “I won’t really care either way about my stress levels, will I?”
There goes that silence again. Saying all the things that Abrams won’t.
My own words get tangled up in my throat. Several make their way out through the torrent flooding my head, croaking into the room. “I’m only eighteen, Doc.”
That’s it.
I haven’t evenlived,and everyone is planning for my death.
Still. No point crying over something I can’t change. I swallow down everything else I want to say – and scream – and focus. Small steps.
One step at a time.
That’s how I’ve survived the last six months, and I have no plans to stop now. “Is there anything else I should be doing?”
Abrams’ brows draw together, before his lips firm. “I’ll need to check your lacerations. We’ll get the nurse in. How are your pain levels?”
Worse every day.“I’m fine.”
“Your tolerance is admirable.”
“Fucking superhuman.” I mutter the words as he presses a button to call for the nurse, already on my feet. It’s a familiar routine by now. Abrams pulls the curtain in the corner of the room around for me to undress, and I carefully ease my green turtleneck off, hissing between my teeth before laying it over the chair at the end of the bed and settling back.
I don’t look down. Not even when the older nurse ducks behind the curtain, her eyes flaring wide and her confident step faltering.
Abrams follows her, flicking through his chart. “When was the last time you changed your dressings?”
I check my watch. “This morning. Three times a day, right?”
“Right.” His touch is gentle as he probs the edges of the bandage that wraps around my neck, left shoulder and upper breast. “I’ll be as careful as I can. Are you ready?”
I should be used to it by now. But the small, horrified sound still has my eyes flying open.
“Nurse Rennan.” Doc’s voice is sharp. An admonishment.
Her eyes lock with mine, an apology there as Abrams continues his work. My vision greys, turning to nothing but flickering lines and dark spots as I breathe in and out against theagony of the saline. The flash of the camera brightens my closed eyelids. “Not too much longer, Kennedy.”
“Any—,” I suck in sharply at what feels like a knife sliding into my stomach. Fuckinghell. “Any change?”
His fingers pause in their torture.
I don’t even know why I asked. “Never mind.”
“You said you were changing the dressings regularly.”
“I am.” I bite down again on my lip. “But I still try not to look. Wouldn’t you?”
Despite myself, my voice wavers. Moisture creates a sheen across my eyes that only grows when a hand slips into mine and squeezes. I can’t help but squeeze it back.
Self-pity, thy name is Kennedy Traylor.
When the torture – slash treatment – is done, the nurse helps me get dressed. I slump back against the examination table. The little energy I worked up this morning has well and truly vanished.
Rennan nudges a carton of orange juice and a fresh-looking chocolate-chip cookie into my trembling hands. She still looks apologetic. “This should help.”
