“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mutters, but he doesn’t push. He knows which hills to die on. He knows this isn’t one. “Jonah’s out of the city,” he adds. “He posted a picture of a wall and a donut. Our quiet intervention looks like sugar and paint.”
I nod in response.
Reid considers me for a moment. “You’re not going to like it when she writes about you,” he says.
“I’m not going to like it if she writes a floor plan,” I say. “If she writes about me, I’ll survive.”
“You’ll make sure everyone else does too,” he says. “Or you’ll burn down part of your life trying.”
“Is there a point?” I ask.
“Two,” he says. “One, don’t skip lunch. Two, if you’re in the interview room with a survivor and you can’t keep your face off your resident, step out.”
“I know how to be furniture when the story isn’t mine,” I say.
“Then be the best chair in the room,” he says, and disappears.
I text Simone.Two interviews. Prep boundaries. No paper, verbal only. You moderate. I sit quiet unless asked to translate.She sends back a thumbs-up and a spoon emoji telling me she will feed someone if she has to.
I draft the message to Aurora twice. The first version reads like a command. The second like a confession. I delete both and write like a founder offers access to a resident without giving away the part where his pulse has opinions.
Good morning. Two survivor interviews will take place on-site at 1400 and 1630. Simone will brief you at 1330. If you choose to attend, you’ll be introduced as an artist-in-residence. You may take notes. No descriptions of rooms, doors, or hallways. If you’d prefer to opt out, say so and the schedule will adjust.
I leave it in the draft field because sending it before I put my hands where they belong would be the kind of impatience that makes people I respect stop respecting me. The hands belong in Clinic One.
R is still on the cot. The blanket is over his knees now, not his shoulders. It’s progress. Imani looks up when I step in and tilts her head toward the boy’s side. I kneel again. He looks at me this time. Not long. Long enough.
“You look better,” I say.
“I look like trash,” he scoffs.
“You look like someone who did something hard,” I say. “Do you want juice?”
He gives me a tiny nod. I hand him a cup, and he drinks it like he won a prize he can’t admit he wanted. His left hand shakes once and stops. He sets the empty cup on the floor with the carefulness of someone who has been punished for dropping things that didn’t matter.
“Imani says your ribs hurt.”
He shrugs like that matters less than everything else. “We’re going to wrap them,” I say. “Not too tight. You’re going to breathe deeper than you want to. You’re going to hate me for a minute. Then you’re going to like that it hurts less.”
He eyes me like he’d like to argue on principle. I hold his gaze and let him see that I’ve had this conversation more times than he wants to know. He lets the argument die before it’s born.
“After that,” I continue, “you’ll eat a sandwich without mustard, I already made sure of it. Then you’ll sleep. When you wake up, you’ll have the choice to talk to someone about the parts you can’t make sit down in your head. If you don’t take the choice, the choice will still be there.”
He breathes in. The breath stutters. He breathes out. The air shivers when it leaves him. I keep my face quiet. He watches me to see if his weakness moves me. I don’t let it. He doesn’t need my reaction. He needs my constancy.
Imani comes back with a wrap. “Do you want me to do it?” she asks him.
“Yeah,” he says, so softly it’s almost nothing.
She does it with hands so good at their job it hurts to watch. He flinches once when she tucks the end. She pauses until he nods. Then it’s done.
“You did fine,” I compliment.
“I did nothing,” he huffs.
“You stayed,” I say. “Sometimes that’s the whole job.”
He looks at the floor until the words don’t sound like mockery. He nods once. That’s more than enough.
