“You’d be wise not to take another goddamned step.” Her voice is low and deep, like a woman scorned by the betrayal of a man. “Your name.”
My footsteps freeze in place.“Skylenna,” I say.
“Skylenna?” She’s still like an oak tree in winter.“That’syour name?”
I nod with pinched brows.
Sern looks uneasy, swaying side to side like a canoe on a choppy lake.“And you workhere?” She finally exhales.
“I do.”
“That took less time than I thought.” And for a moment, almost a flash of lucidity crosses her face—as if the rest of this were a performance.
“What does that mean?” I lean against the stone wall, grazing my hands over its rough, bumpy texture.
“Can’t say. They listen to every word.” Her dark index finger taps against her white patient gown.
“I’m meetingPatient Thirteentoday, and I have questions.” I don’t have time for this. I need to get straight to the point before I have to go meet this mysterious figure.
Her body is marbleized into place. Eyes wider than before, chapped lips parting in disbelief.
“Patient Thirteen,” she repeats. Eyes tracing a spot on the wall, gears and cogs shifting beneath her skull.
“Do you have any advice or information you can share that can prepare me in any way?”
Her charcoal eyes brim with tears, and by the trembling of her chin, she’s fighting to hold a cry in. “This—” She chokes on her words, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “This could be over soon, then.”
I swallow.Please, just give me something. Anything!“Is it true this patient fractured your neck?”
Another deep breath.
“What do you know?” I ask again.
She turns to look at me, but this time, her eyes are clear, like a bath before it’s been soaked in.“MissAmbrose?”
I freeze. I never told her my full name.
“Don’t be frightened. He’s been expecting you.”
15. The Mad Men’s Muse
Something is different about theseseconds that capture me. Something is strange.
This hallway curves like a spine plagued with scoliosis, walls creaking from the repercussions of patient trauma, and vents expelling a stench of dried sweat and ammonia. My legs move across the checkered tile floors like I am gliding through warm bathwater.
I am both calm and panicked, wrapped up in a tiny pink bow.
There is something like butterflies rushing to my core. Close, but it’s more than that. It’s a pull from the inside. It’s not only urging me to move, but it’s urging me to walk faster—lift my knees higher above this invisible current. Like I’m attached to a fishing hook, looped inside the wall of my ribs, dragging me to my captor. Like it’s my divine purpose, it’s what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.
That door, that highly reinforced, indestructible, prison-cell door, grows in size with each step I take. Our heels clack in unison. I want to break out into a sprint, yet I want to stop right here and hold on to this moment. I want to grab it from nothing and wrap it up tight, pinning it in my pocket forever.
If I could just see who Patient Thirteen is, why everyone makes such a big deal about this person—then I can move on from this obsession. Then I can sleep soundly. Then I can finally think about something else.
Or maybe not. Maybe this is just the beginning.
We stop one foot in front of the vast metal door.
“Before we go in,” Suseas exhales unsteadily.“I must ask again. Are you absolutely certain you desire to meet this patient?” I resist the urge to twist a strand of hair between my fingers. “Because, to be absolutely frank… I wouldn’t wish this encounter on my worst enemy.”
