Sterling looks at me. The look that says he’s cataloging every micro-flinch along with every shallow breath. Tape wraps his shoulder; stains on his shirt paint a marble pattern of red and black. He looks worse than I do.He’s not the one swaying when he stands.The chair under me catches my weight. “Humor us,” Sterling pushes.
“Fine. Poke away.” Rolling my eyes, they’re not going to stop until I give in.
“That’s Sterling’s job,” Cam mutters, already digging into the crate of supplies.
We’ve turned the least drafty room into a half-assed infirmary: thin mattress, one lamp, a box of stolen medical junk. I’m half expecting a nurse with cartoon scrubs to walk in and hand me a lollipop. Instead, it’s a hacker in a blood-spattered T-shirt with a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope that’s probably older than I am. “Shirt up, jeans open to the hips. I promise I’m more professional than your last doctor.”
“That’s a low bar.” My hands are already moving, the fabric dragging over my bruised skin. I bite down on my tongue, holding back a whimper. The color has spread. What was a fist-sized bruise over my hip is now a whole galaxy of blue and black blooming low across my abdomen. “Jesus,” Cam breathes. His fingers hover over the worst of it before he forces himself to touch, gentle and methodical. “Where does it hurt the most?”
“Everywhere,” I say automatically, then sigh. “Low and to the right. It’s better if I don’t move. Or breathe.”
That starts a string of questions. “Dizziness?” Sterling chimes in.
“Sometimes.”
“Nausea?”
“Only when Evelyn talks.” I shrug off the question.
The corner of Cam’s mouth twitches; his eyes stay serious. “Before today? Last week? Last month?”
I stare at the wall over his head. “I’ve been more tired,” I admit. “Nightmares are worse. Food tastes like cardboard. It’s probably just stress.” Sterling shifts against the wall, a subtle weight change, but I feel his focus sharpen.
“Any sharp, stabbing pains that take your breath away?” Cam asks.
A hiss escapes before I can stop it when his fingers find a spot low and to the right. He eases off immediately. “Yes, like right now when you press there, asshole…”
“Guarding,” he says under his breath. “Localized tenderness. No rebound.”
“In English?” my voice edged with annoyance.
“In English, I don’t think you’re actively bleeding out,” he says. “But you took one hell of a hit. You’re on the very edge of what I’m comfortable calling okay.”
“See, so I’m fine,” I mutter.
Cam wraps the cuff around my arm and starts pumping. “You need rest. Real rest. Your body is going through a lot. It needs a bit of a break.”
“I wasn’t planning on taking punches recreationally.” I deadpan.
“Planning implies forethought.” Sterling's voice drifts dryly from the doorway. “You don’tplanto throw yourself into danger, Thorn. You just see fire and decide you’re fucking fireproof.”
I glare at him. “You’re not exactly Mr. OSHA compliance either.”
“The difference is, I don’t have sixteen years of medical experimentation on my body. You’re the only one here who’s been solely theirs since childhood.”
Cam’s stethoscope is cold against my ribs, causing me to flinch. He counts under his breath, watching my chest rise and fall. “Your heart’s sprinting a marathon,” he says.
“Let me guess: your prescription is sleep.” I’m over the two of you babying me right now. I’ll be fine.
“Sleep. Water. Actual food,” Cam says. “And I want to check you again in six hours. If the pain gets worse or you spike a fever, we reevaluate.”
“And by reevaluate, we argue about whether going to a hospital is more dangerous than staying here,” Sterling says bluntly.
The idea of fluorescent lights shining on the too-white walls with strangers in scrubs poking at me while my chart quietly uploads to the same network that’s been harvesting my data since I was eight makes my skin crawl. “Staying,” I say quickly, the decision easy to make. “We stay.” Sterling nods once, like that was the only acceptable answer.
Cam tapes a fresh pad over one of the deep cuts on my side. “One more thing. No more meds from anyone tied into the system. If we need something, I’ll source it myself.”
I remember the pharmacy clerk lecturing me about Plan B, the way I took it with shaking hands and told myself that was that. A laugh bubbles up. “Guess you don’t trust my OB-GYN anymore,” I say. Cam’s eyes flick up to mine, sharp. Sterling’s body goes taut in the doorway. I realize what I just implied, and I want to take back the words and stuff them down my own throat. “I mean,” I backpedal, “It was just a standard checkup.”
