“Of course,” Dr. Kontogeorgos was saying, “we’re doing everything we can to keep her comfortable, but with third degreeburns over thirty percent of her body, that’s no easy feat. We’re lucky to be maintaining stability, let alone comfort.”
“And… third degree burns are really bad?”
“It doesn’t get much worse. First degree involves blisters and pain. A really bad sunburn can get to that point. Third degree is one step shy of melting down to bone.”
His knees wavered, and Foster locked them. He would not fall apart here, when she needed him to be strong. “Fuck.”
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor squeezed his shoulder gently. “I’m afraid to say there’s… not much we can do for her, son. She’s heavily sedated, but… well, I recommend that you see her while you can.”
The words rocked through him so hard that it took a moment for his brain to process them. “What—what are you trying to say, Doc?”
A long pause. The doctor swept his gaze around the room, taking in the utter stillness, the empty chairs. “I’m saying it’s very good of you to be here with her, especially since it won’t be easy to see her in this state. But I suggest you take this time before it’s too late.”
He didn’t remember following Dr. Kontogeorgos down the long, sterile corridors, but he must have. He must have, because he was standing before a closed wooden door in a busy hallway, raising and lowering his hand in an endless cycle ofalmostturning the handle.
The doctor had deposited him here and vanished again, off to save other lives, and left Foster standing alone to face down his demons. Actually, demons would have been preferable to the horror that was mounting within him.
“I can’t,” he murmured, a nervous shiver rolling down his spine. “I can’t bear it.”
A familiar presence appeared behind him, and warm hands settled on his shoulders.
“But you must,” Gabe spoke gently, punctuating his words with a light squeeze. “If not you, then who?”
“You’re right.”
“I often am.”
Foster huffed. “Prick.”
“I am also this,” Gabe agreed easily, releasing him to saunter around and lean into the doorframe. “But you love me for it, Foster Flake.”
“What Idon’tlove is that stupid nickname. I’m not five anymore.”
“You’ll always be a baby to me,” Gabe’s eyes twinkled, and Foster rolled his.
“Ridiculous.” He lifted his hand back to the doorknob; gripped it tight. “Ridiculous.”
Gabe softened. “It is not an exclusively mortal concept, you know. Anxiety…fear.”
Foster said nothing, just turned the knob and swung the door inward. Gabe touched his shoulder again before drifting ahead of him into the room, drawing him along like a boat caught in a wake. He stepped slowly in Gabe’s footsteps, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor ahead of him.
The sound of slow, steady beeping reassured him, but it was drowned out by the mechanical hiss of the machine breathing for his neighbor. He reached the side of the bed, staying tucked behind Gabe like maybe hewasstill five. Part of him was ashamed of the way he cowered, but dignity be damned, his heart was breaking at the simple thought of how Sra. Delgado must look. The actual sight was liable to kill him.
“Fossie,” Gabe said solemnly, stepping aside and resting his hand on Foster’s back. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” He finally jerked his gaze up from the crisp white bedsheet, like ripping off a bandage. There was a moment of disconnect, where his eyes hadn’t yet told his brain what he wasseeing. This wasn’t Sra. Delgado. This was a pile of old rags someone had left on the bed while cleaning up. He was in the wrong room. His mind supplied any explanation but the truth.
Slowly, horribly, it sunk in. Those were bandages, not rags. That was blood starting to seep and stain them. The greyish bits peeking through, the spots that looked like paper with charred edges… that wasskin.
“¡Abuela!” His chest tightened, his stomach twisted, his heart tried to hammer out of his chest through his ribs.
The last vestiges of beer and bar nachos rolled in his gut and he retched, dry heaving for a moment to fight the urge to vomit. Slender hands gripped his upper arms with surprising strength, hauling him up against a warm chest. Gabe folded him into a tight embrace, pulling him into the chair by the bedside so he could sit.
“Shh,” he crooned, stroking long fingers through dark waves, soothing and shushing him just like he had fifteen years ago. “The first step is to breathe. In and out.”
He tried and failed, shuddering on each breath as hot tears poured down his cheeks.
“Again, Foster.”
