The cat twitches an ear hearing his name. “He missed you,” I say, reaching over him to scratch the cat, strangely sad that the feline won’t be at the house when we get back.
One limp hand flops on the cat’s head, and Fluffington purrs like he’s been saving them all up while his person was gone.
Glancing back at Jansen, I find his eyes shut, his breath a bit more labored than when we first got him settled. “Are you still with us?”
“For now. How do I know if I’m dying?”
RJ looks at the directions again. “Fever, mostly. Cold sweats, pain, coughing or vomiting up blood, bloating or swelling. Confusion, weakness, low blood pressure, or a rapid heart rate. Do you want me to check?” He holds up the blood pressure cuff we stole from the warehouse. You know, along with bags of saline, painkillers, antibiotics, and a bedpan.
Awkward, but necessary. Just moving Jay here risked the stitches Emma left inside him.
Jansen shakes his head a little, Fluffington turning so more of Jansen’s floppy hand can stroke him. “Nah. Need to keep tabs.” He opens one eye, glancing at the lime tree. “How long?”
RJ and I share a look. “No idea. Humans and animals heal at different rates, and you got yourself an animal doctor,” I say, trying to make light of Clara and Trips’ decisions.
They weren’t good ones. But I’m not sure there were better ones. Not if they had to go back to that house. Not if there were already guns being fired.
Yesterday, what feels like a lifetime ago, I watched Clara put our training into action, taking down her guard before he could do the same to her.
But the consequence of that victory was guns.
RJ must be thinking in the same circles I am. “Jansen, do you remember what happened when you got shot? Clara and Trips left before we could talk to them.”
But he’s fallen asleep.
Fifteen minutes later, RJ wakes him enough to give him more meds, and an hour after that, he blinks his eyes open again.
RJ asks his question a second time, and with halting, pained words and breaks for water and air, Jansen explains his escape. The story makes little sense, his confused but buzzing brain leading him to be literallyaboveClara, then dropping in front of her when a guy tried to shoot her. A guy who, when pressed, sounds like he could have been the one she took down earlier that day. The one, according to RJ, she already thought she’d killed last winter.
Based on the commotion that was going on when he got there, the house was looking for a show. They got one, but it wasn’t what they expected.
Jansen Pierce doesn’t do ‘expected’ well.
Once he finishes his somewhat confused story, he sinks even farther into the mattress. “I’m tired,” he says.
“You’ve got a lot of healing to do,” RJ answers.
The gentle rumble of Fluffington’s purrs fills the silence.
A creak from the front door has both RJ and me on our feet, sprinting to the top of the stairs, but it’s only Emma slipping in, closing the door behind her.
As we leave the room to hand off our patient, I hear, barely audible over the cat, “Love you, beautiful.”
And as I’ve voiced my own confessions to my silent room more nights than I’d care to admit, I shut the door behind me, leaving him to his imagined love.
Chapter 6
Clara
Iknow all about the cognitive effects of solitary confinement. It’s come up a few times while studying the punishment component of my criminal justice major. But I never thought I’d have to live through it personally.
Already today I’ve taken two showers and a bath, intermingled with drawing on the walls using a piece of charcoal I found hiding in a cranny of the chimney. I debated whether I should destroy what is likely ungodly expensive artisan wallpaper, but in the end, I went for it. If Trips’ dad refuses to give me entertainment, I’ll use my time doing whatever the hell I want. If he’s pissed, well, that’s on him.
I started with spirals and patterns, like I did when I was bored during middle school, but I found myself working on more realistic images as the sun moved higher in the sky. A pretty good impression of Fluffington now guards the bathroom, his ear tufts making me even more homesick than Ialready am. It turns out that perfecting my cartoon kitten skills for little Isabella a lifetime ago has been key to my continued sanity.
Unfortunately, my skills are non-transferable. I smeared out a failed attempt at drawing Jansen by the bed, my heart aching with the mounting pressure of not knowing if he’s okay. If he’s even alive. If I should mourn or celebrate in the solitude of my plush blue prison.
After I pick over yet another silently delivered sandwich, I dig through the chimney, but there aren’t any more chunks of burned wood, so I save the last inch for tomorrow. Out of activities, I brush my black hands against the Trips-sized sweatpants I’ve been living in for the last two days, then try to find the energy to throw myself yet another solo dance party.
