The fluorescent lights make even the healthier-seeming patients look like they’re auditioning for a zombie movie.
A sprite in the corner is having some kind of magical hiccups, little sparks shooting out of her ears every few seconds while her giant friend pats her back uselessly. More sparks shoot out with every heavy thump.
A partially shifted squirrel shifter two seats down is clearly tweaking on something, his tail twitching in rapid, erratic patterns as he stares at the wall. Everyone’s trying to avoid making eye contact with him and drawing his attention, including me.
And in the far corner, a vampire girl bent over slightly and clutching her stomach sits surrounded by what I assume is her coven. Four other pale, bored-looking vampires who are either preening in their phone cameras or scrolling. Guess that doesn’t count as a mirror.Huh.
The girl herself looks disgusted with all of us in spite of her green shade, which is fair. I’m pretty disgusted with all of us too.
Sean grunts, pulling harder. The vending machine rocks ominously.
“Stop,” I say, crossing the room. “You’re going to tip it over and crush someone. Probably yourself.”
“Good. Then they’ll have to give me my Cheetos as compensation.”
I crouch beside him, examining the situation. His arm is wedged in the retrieval slot at an angle that defies basic anatomy. The Cheetos bag is visible through the glass, dangling tantalizingly from the spiral dispenser, clearly stuck.
Not as stuck as Sean is.
“How did you even get your arm in this far?”
“Determination.” Sean grins, though it’s lopsided given that half his face is covered in a blood-soaked compress. “And rage. Mostly rage.”
“You have a head injury. You shouldn’t berageful. You should be sitting quietly and filling out your own damn paperwork.”
“I’ll worry about paperwork when I’m done being robbed by corporate snack machines. The man has my balls in his greedy capitalist vice grip, Rowan.”
The vampire girl looks up from her phone and cocks an eyebrow at us.
“That’s it, no more econ class for you,” I mutter.
I grab his bicep and try to angle it toward freedom. The machine groans. Sean yelps.
“Ow, ow, ow—wrong way, wrong way?—”
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still! You’re the one yanking!”
“I’m notyanking, I’m maneuvering your fucking?—”
“Mr. Brewer?”
We both freeze. A nurse stands in the doorway to the treatment area, clipboard in hand, looking at us with the expression of someone who’s seen too much and is paid too little.
Sean looks around the waiting room in confusion. “My dad’s here?”
I stare at him. “No, you idiot. That’syou.”
“Oh.” He blinks. “Right. Brewer. That’s me.”
The nurse’s voice has gone flat. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I give Sean’s arm one final, strategic twist, and it yanks free of the machine with a sound like a cork popping out of a bottle.
He stumbles backward, flexing his fingers.
“Ha! Freedom!” He turns toward the vending machine, looking betrayed as he points. “This isn’t over.”
