“That doesn’t make me a hero. It makes me greedy.”
“No one’s ever been greedy for me before. I like it,” I declared.
“You’re just touch-starved.”
“The only touch I want is yours.”
He scowled. “I’ve been killing for the government for about ten years. Assignment after assignment. They call; I answer. They point; I shoot. I can’t get out. They own me, and they always will. I will never have a normal life. I will nevernot be a killer.”
“Sanctioned operative.” I corrected him.
“Permission to murder is still murder.”
“When I was twelve, my mother took me to the doctor so she could prove I was faking what was wrong with me.”
“What?” he shot up off the back of the couch, but I lay my hand against his chest.
“Listen.”
His tongue dragged over his teeth, but he nodded.
“She said I acted weak because I wanted to get out of chores even though I still did them. She said I was trying to get attention and pity from the teachers because they’d call home and tell her I was limping or that I fell asleep in class. One time, she accused me of holding my hands under the hair dryer to make them red and hot.”
Hiro’s hands clutched into fists, and I couldn’t help the little bolt of happiness that I felt because he was angry on my behalf.
“So she took me to the doctor, and he examined me and took some labs.”
“And?”
“And he called us back in to tell my parents that not only did I have all the symptoms, but I tested positive for juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, JRA for short. But now the doctors call it juvenile idiopathic arthritis. I don’t know why they changed it. I just read that they did.”
“You didn’t twist your ankle this morning,” he murmured.
I shook my head. “No. I limp because my ankles and toes hurt all the time. Usually, I’m better at hiding it, but aftereverything yesterday and running through the street…”
“Sleeping on the floor,” he intoned.
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That isnothelping your case,” he snapped.
Yikes.“My wrists and fingers hurt a lot too. I have a pretty weak grip. Sometimes it’s hard for me to open things. My knees ache a lot and sometimes swell. It’s usually worse when I first wake up in the morning. It takes a while for me to get moving.”
“What else?” He encouraged me.
“Sometimes I get a fever and a sore throat. Or seem like I have the flu when I really don’t. Things that most people do every day make me tired.”
“Is this why you were sick when I found you in that box?”
“Probably,” I replied. “I’d done a snow-removal job not long before. I shoveled snow during a blizzard for several hours to make money.”
He growled below his breath, and goose bumps rose along my limbs. Not because I was afraid but because it turned me on.
“I hadn’t been eating well and was tired. I was just rundown.”
“If I hadn’t found you…” His words trailed away.
“I would have eventually made it to a motel. I would have been okay.” I reassured him.
