“That’s what you told me,” he said, still grinning adorably.
I shook my head. We needed to change the subject. “Do I typically play cards?” I asked.
“We do sometimes, when we’re not working. You’re more often concerned about the security of our compound. Assburbia, we call it because we’re Assholes living in the suburbs.”
I chuckled. Very clever. “Did I come up with that name too?”
He shrugged as he shuffled. “We sort of all came up with it. A lot of our best ideas are group projects.”
Kitten then explained the rules for a game called Go Fish, dealing out the cards to each of us on my little food tray on wheels. I was pretty sure I’d played this game before, and it was good the rules were simple because I kept getting distracted by his smile, the way he’d tuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth when he was thinking or tug on an errant curl.
“What is it?” he asked, perhaps noticing my fixation.
“Nothing, I just…” I smiled, feeling a little embarrassed to say it. “I like looking at you. You’re really handsome. It’s kind of distracting.” Was I flirting with him? Maybe so, but there was something about him. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”
He laid his warm hand on top of my casted one and squeezed my fingers gently, the card game completely forgotten. “Don’t be sorry. I think you’re handsome too. You can look at me as much as you want.”
Warmth bloomed in my stomach, along with a jitter of nervousness. I’d felt relief in these past few days, and comfort, but this was the first surge of happiness I’d had since coming back from being Rabid. Kitten was indeed my friend, and by that logic, Macon was too, which meant Godara had been telling the truth. This handsome, gentle soul truly cared about me. I wasn’t alone in this world. I had friends and a family, a place to belong. I had a home.
“Do you have a four?” I asked him.
“No, go fish.”
I reached for the pile between us. I already had two pairs—a winning hand—but I didn’t want the game to be over just yet.
Dr. Godara tookthe hint and brought me a radio, and after Kitten left, I spent the evening catching up with what all was happening in the world. Pretty fucking bleak overall, but it did help to trigger a few memories for me, both good and bad. TLDR: the world was fucked, no place was safe from Rabids, and the fact that I was still alive and human was nothing short of a miracle.
“Well, what did you learn?” Godara asked me the next morning during our daily check-in. These used to be done via her disembodied voice on the intercom, like some sort of benevolent Kitchen God, but now it was done face-to-face in my room. I’d been surprised to discover she was only five foot, two inches. I’d assumed her to be at least seven feet tall.
“Sounds like a real shitshow out there,” I told her as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my upper arm and pumped it full of air.
“I’d discourage you from listening to too much of the news. It’s important to your recovery that you maintain a positive outlook,” she said as she jotted the results on a clipboard. “Your friend seemed very happy to see you.”
“Yeah,” I said, getting a warm, tingly feeling low in my belly. “I was happy to see him too.”
“He’ll be by again this afternoon?” she said.
“That’s what he said.”
“Do you have any memories of him?”
“Not as strong as my family, but they’re coming back to me in bits and pieces. Conversations we’ve had and flashes of his face. I think we’re very close.”
“Yes, it seemed that way to me too.”
That was good; it meant I wasn’t inventing things in my head. “Here’s a question for you, Doc. You all are sitting on a cure over here. Why not let the world know about it?”
She was slow to respond as she often was when thinking about an answer to one of my questions. “There’ve been a lot of claims already of a cure, which this is not, by the way. It’s a treatment. And it doesn’t have a great success rate, not yet at least. For every one of you, there are many more who didn’t make it.”
I made a face. “Not very good odds?”
“No, unfortunately not. And we have to weigh the cost along with the benefits. The emotional toll it takes on doctors and nurses to care for patients who may not survive, as well as the material cost of manufacturing the pharmaceuticals en masse, not to mention the security needed to contain virulent patients. Lean forward.” She placed the cold bell of her stethoscope against my back, listening to my lungs. They used to crackle whenever I breathed too deeply, but that seemed to be going away as well. I hadn’t had a coughing fit in a couple days, all good signs.
“The treatment needs to be better before we devote those kinds of resources to its production,” she continued, “but we’re getting closer every day, and you’re part of that story now, Cipher.”
She reminded me of my mother, matronly but reserved, caring but not coddling. “My mother was a researcher,” I told her as I took another deep breath.
“Yes, I’ve studied her work. A lot of what she was doing was groundbreaking at the time.”
