***
Sunday morning at Lexington General is a whole other flavor of hell. The parking lot was full of half-dead nurses, bleary-eyed med students, and a few drunks on their way out of detox. I’d tried to clean up—showered, borrowed a cardigan from the pile of charity stuff in the church closet, even put on lipstick—but as soon as I walked in, I felt raw, like I’d left a layer of skin at home.
The third floor was quiet, the kind of quiet that means trouble. I crept past the nurse’s desk, waved at the same candy striper from last night, and found Axel awake, sitting up, eating a bowl of off-brand Fruit Loops. He wore a hospital gown that barelycovered his tattoos, one arm in a sling, and the other propped up with a stack of pillows. His eyes tracked me as I entered, wary but not unfriendly.
I sat in the vinyl chair, smoothed my skirt, and tried to think of something cool to say. He beat me to it.
“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, voice still gravelly, but softer now.
“I almost didn’t,” I admitted. “But then I remembered you still owe me a story.”
He arched an eyebrow. “What kind of story?”
“Any kind. Just not the kind where you almost die at my dad’s church.”
He actually laughed, then winced, clutching his ribs. “Noted.”
I pulled the chair closer to the bed, so our knees almost touched. “I never met anyone like you,” I said, before I could stop myself.
He looked at me, waiting.
I fiddled with my necklace, the cross slipping between my fingers like it wanted to escape. “I’m supposed to be perfect. Perfect daughter, perfect Christian, perfect everything. But all I ever do is screw it up. I sneak out, I drink, I get in fights with old ladies at the food bank. I fuck men, I shouldn’t.”
He shrugged. “Sounds better than running from who you are.”
I stopped, caught off guard. “You were running?”
He nodded, eyes not leaving mine. “If you run, people can’t leave you. If you hide, they can’t find you.”
“Who left?”
He looked toward the window. “I don’t really—”
“My mom died a while back. Cancer, but I also think of a lonely heart. My father wasn’t much of a partner.” None of that was breaking news. I could guess his story, but it wasn’t for me to bring it up. Luckily, he did.
“Father left when I was young. Mom died after I cut out of Maine.” He shrugged. “Too much of life is about people leaving and not enough about them staying.”
“You staying here?” I asked. I wanted him to—not even because I wanted to piss off my father.
He huffed. “I’m a Prospect. They don’t even give you a name until you’ve bled enough for it. I’m here until the club tells me to hit the road.”
“Do you like it?” I asked. “The club, I mean.”
He thought about it. “It’s honest. They tell you the rules. If you break them, you pay for it. No surprises.”
“I wish church was like that,” I said. “They pretend it’s all love, but really, it’s just rules and punishments. You break one, you get paraded in front of the whole congregation.”
Axel leaned back, eyes half-closed. “You ever want to just leave?”
I thought about it. “Sometimes I do. But then I see my dad, and I remember he’s just as stuck as I am.”
He looked at me, really looked, and I could see the sadness there, and the anger, and something else—something that felt like hope.
We sat for a long time, saying nothing, just breathing in the same space. The world outside the window was gray and heavy, but in here, it was warm. Safe, even.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, quieter this time. “About yesterday.”
He shook his head. “Not your fault. You tried.”
