Trips comes out from the bathroom with his head damp and blood free, then pulls a bag of ice from the freezer. I add some Ziplock bags for ice packs and the biggest bottles of ibuprofen and Tylenol they have to my basket.
Donuts get added as an afterthought, something sweet and cheap to cheer us up. At least, that’s the thought. The clerk rings me in, her eyes half closed and her movements glacial, a sure sign she’s nearing the end of her shift. Less chance of her remembering us.
After everything is in the RV, the gas finally done pumping, I head back to the bathroom, the newly acquired first aid supplies shoved into my pockets.
Soaking the leather takes forever, the quality of the gloves working against me. A single careful tug tells me that the only way my hand is getting out of its casing is if I cut it free.
So I do. And when I peel my hand free, I almost vomit.
Washing my palm has sweat beading across my face, the pain making my movements shaky, my head spinning. But I get it clean, the water finally running clear. After jamming the glove to the bottom of the trash, I dab my mangled flesh dry. Smearing antibiotic ointment over all my fingers is an exercise in delayed gratification, the numbing agent taking way too long to activate. I wrap each finger individually in gauze, taping them closed against my palm, the pattern vaguely spiderweb-like. Like a reverse, damaged version of Spiderman.
Slipping out of the store and back into the RV, I head to the back bedroom to check on Walker. Trips has already switched out his ice pack, but the blood on his head is dry and flaky, his face pale. “When do we worry?” I ask, knowing the space is small enough for Trips to hear me.
Sure enough, he stands, his face grim. “Try to wake him up. If he can talk and makes sense, he’ll be fine. He’ll just have to take it easy for a while.”
I’ve picked up enough to know Trips didn’t have a childhood full of cuddles and silly games, so I don’t ask how he knows.
I’m not an idiot, even if I play one better than anyone else on this bus. I just prefer it when things are fun, light, and engaging. The side of me that comes out when shit gets dark isn’t a side of me I much like.
Squatting next to the double bed, I shake Walker’s arm a little, hating that I’m waking him up at all. Not when sleep is what’s going to help him heal.
“Hey, man,” I say, my voice scratchy from a lack of use.
Walker blinks his eyes open, squinting in the pale light leaking in through the doorway. “Where am I?”
“Do you remember much of last night?”
“I took out a guy with cat litter. But it’s a little hazy after that.”
“We’re on the road. How do you feel?”
“My head feels like it got cracked open, then put back together crooked. And light feels like someone is stabbing my eyes with fucking ten-inch needles.”
Trips steps forward, closing the door behind him, Walker’s sigh of relief loud in the small space. “Concussion. Can I have you do a few things for me? Then I’ll let you sleep.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Trips has Walker stand up and balance on each foot and do all kinds of moves with his hands and arms. Once he’s satisfied, Walker inches back into the bed, the ice wedged in with a pillow as he groans. “Clara?”
“In front,” I say.
“There’s a second bed?”
“No, she and RJ passed out on a chair together.”
He looks between Trips and me. “Are they okay?”
Trips’ lips twist to the side and I shrug. “They look okay, but neither of them have told us what happened. So, no, they’re probably not okay.” This is getting too dark, too fast. “But nobody else had their brain scrambled, so you get this big bed like the princeling you are,” I tease.
But it’s not light. None of this is.
He gives me the smallest attempt at a smile, and I appreciate the effort to pretend things are normal. “Damn straight. This bed is mine now. And it’s only big enough for two, and you know I’m not sharing with your hairy ass.”
“You say that now, but you’ll come begging for my killer cuddles here as soon as you’re back on your feet.”
Trips leaves, returning with Tylenol and water, Walker taking the drugs without complaint. “How long am I going to impersonate a vampire?”
Trips tries to close the water bottle but winces and spills some on the rug. I grab it from him, but I can’t close it one-handed either. He ends up twisting the top on while I hold the bottle before he nods his thanks and answers Walker. “Take it easy for two or three days. Then, it’ll probably be two weeks until you’re totally back to normal. The longer you rest, avoiding anything that gives you a headache, the sooner you’ll get better.”
