“That’s—that’s terrible, even for your family?—“
“I know,” I snap, sitting forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “Trust me, I fuckingknow, okay? I’m doing my best to keep her safe. It’s why I got the living daylights kicked out of me last night.”
“Rowan is doing his best to protect me!” Mirabelle says, jumping in to defend me. It makes my heart squeeze in my chest. I think it practically every time I look at her, but she’s too sweet for this world. “Plus, the fighters haven’t hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway. We have... an understanding!”
“I see,” Dr. Stetson says slowly. “Well, if you ever need a place to stay, should you want it, Rowan knows where to find me.”
I still, my eyes going wide. “You being serious, Doc?”
I know the weight of what he’s offering. He’s saying if we ever get the courage to run away from this place, that he’d help us.
That’s an insane offer, knowing that my dad would probably do some crazy shit to get us back.
Well, to get Mirabelle back. He probably won’t give two shits about me.
“The only reason I can afford suppressants for my daughters is because of your family’s payments,” Dr. Stetson answers, disinfecting some of my wounds.
I grit my teeth against the painful sting. It’s stupid, but I want to appear tough in front of Mirabelle.
“Thank you!” She says, smiling brightly. “I’ll be taking care of Rowan, by the way, so please show me what to do?”
“Are you?” Dr. Stetson says, offering me a fond smile. “Well then, let me show you.”
Like I said, too fucking sweet for this world.
Dr. Stetson is quick and efficient with his work, showing Mirabelle how to disinfect my split lip and the cut I have in my hairline, which luckily doesn’t need stitches. She takes to the role of being my caretaker like a fish in water.
It’s a sight to see, her flitting about the trailer in those comically large basketball shorts, microwaving us all some pasta. She made me the Alfredo kind, her smile as bright as the sun as she fed me my first bite.
Like hell was I going to tell her I could feed myself.
“The thing I’m most concerned about is your concussion,” Dr. Stetson says. “It doesn’t look like its severe, and your pupils are still dilating properly, but from the looks of things, your head was knocked around a lot.”
“Yeah, definitely feels like it.”
“Here’re some pain meds,” he says, pulling out an unlabeled pill bottle from his briefcase. “Take one every eight hours for the pain.”
“Got it, thanks, doc.”
Dr. Stetson turns to Mirabelle, who’s still perched on the armchair, the plastic container of Alfredo still in her lap.
“You, young lady, will have a very important job.”
“Yes! Anything!” She says, practically buzzing.
“Tonight, check on him every two to three hours to make sure he’s doing okay. Check if he’s breathing normally and sleepingpeacefully. He’s pretty coherent now, but if anything seems strange, wake him up and ask him a simple question.”
“Like what his name is or something?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Stetson says, nodding proudly.
“Okay! I can do that!” She says, turning to me excitedly.
My lips quirk up into a small smile before I pop the cap of the bottle of pills and take one.
“Alright, I think that’s all for today. Call me if you need anything more, okay?” Dr. Stetson says, nodding to me.
“Thanks,” I nod back.
