“It could have been a lot worse,” Griffin says.
Ha. That’s what I said. I remember saying that to Nico after it happened. Could have been worse should be the title of my memoir.
I mouth,Nico?
Griffin suddenly looks guilty. His expression cuts right through the fog of painkillers and exhaustion, and I’m painfully awake.
“Not going to lie, he’s in bad shape. He’s been unconscious since you called us. Had a bad infection in his feet, two broken ribs…” Griffin must read the panic on my face, because he adds, “The doctors think he’ll pull through, but it’s going to take time.”
I mime writing, scribbling my good hand in the air. Griffin produces a notepad and pen. My handwriting comes out looking like a drunk chicken has walked through ink, or like one of those paintings the chimpanzees do, but I manage to scrawl:Hands?
“Some nerve damage, but he should regain most functionality,” he says.
Most functionality doesn’t mean he can still draw. At least not like he used to.
I write again, my hand shaking:Where?
“A different hospital.” Griffin glances toward the curtain wrapping around us. I must be sharing this room with another person, because Griffin lowers his voice. “He was beaten so badly that facial recognition would be hard, but we couldn’t risk having you both in the same hospital. People would ask too many questions.”
Imagining Nico so broken nobody could recognize his face… I close my eyes and focus on breathing. I need to stop thinking about Nico unconscious. There is absolutely nothing I can do to help him.
Griffin leans his forearms onto the bed, lowering his voice.
“Hey, Eden?” He sounds careful. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”
I wait.
Griffin’s eyes drift to my throat. “I know the Game Master’s M.O. Did Nico… did he hurt you?”
I shake my head immediately. The movement makes my head swim.
“I know it was a bad situation,” Griffin says. “But I’ve read Donny’s case studies. Under extreme pressure, some possession victims can snap, and I recognize that bruising pattern.”
My fingers curl into the sheets, gripping the cheap fabric until my knuckles ache. I know he’s being a good friend, but I hate that even the people closest to Nicostillsuspect he’s capable of snapping. That Nico was right in thinking they did. I hate that as soon as Nico wakes up, he’ll blame himself for all of this, and I won’t be there to tell him that he’s wrong.
I snatch the pen and write:Played dead to escape. My idea.
Griffin once said he wouldn’t offer me pity, but the look in his eyes right now is as pitying as any look I’ve ever seen. “Oh, Eden.”
Screwing up my face, I focus on the paper and write:Game Master?
“Still out there,” Griffin concedes. “Got no idea where he is.”
There’s a pause.
“But before we get into any of that super fun and not terrifying stuff, I have to ask.” Griffin looks confused, opening his mouth then closing it again, as if unable to decide how to phrase his next question. He drags a hand down his face, rolling his lips like he’s holding back a laugh. “Any chance you know why there was a key in Nico’s bedpan?”
I recount everything I can remember from the abandoned building, writing in wobbling letters on the pad of paper:
Hospital?
Asylum?
Male cop
White
Ginger
