Page 8 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Nurse Lila is a boss with the needle. With just the slightest pinch, a dark bloom of blood fills the vial.

Blood fascinates me for some reason. Gives me a strange thrill. But I don’t tell anyone that. And I don’t know why.

“All done,” Nurse Lila says, handing me a cotton ball.

I press it to the wound inside my elbow, holding it there as I stand. I should be paid if I’m going to assist with these exams.

I hear people talk about money, but I have no concept of it. My only experience with money is that right after my accident in Chicago, I was placed in a nice facility. Then my father died, and months later, Lourdes told me Dad’s money ran out. The only way to continue my care was for her to declare me a ward of the state. Social workers then moved me to Lakeshore Neurological Rehabilitation, a state-run facility.

Marlowe is privately owned. And much nicer. I get better care here. Lourdes is paying. Or Ares is.

Being taken care of is starting to bother me, too. All the people in my life have jobs. They have a purpose. I need a purpose.

“Good luck with Dr. Waters,” Nurse Lila says.

“Luck is just another word for good timing,” I murmur.

A brief silence lingers.

“Jessica, where did you hear that phrase?” Her voice halts me.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, not admitting that it echoes in my head. Sometimes over and over. “I must have heard someone say it.”

It’s just another stray thought I can’t explain. Like an infant whose knowledge of the world is gained through observation and unconscious absorption, I’ve had to relearn nearly everything. Those first few months after the accident were hard.

By the time I reach the therapy room, a faint irritation has settled beneath my skin, and it’s not even nine a.m. I’m tired of being poked and measured and observed, tired of being told what my body is doing as if I don’t live inside myself every second of every day.

That’s new, too. This feeling of unease. Of frustration. Shoving all of that away, as I have been doing lately, I push open the door to Dr. Caroline Waters’s office and step inside.

“Good morning, Jessica.” Dr. Caroline looks up from her tablet.

All the doctors here have one. And phones. Of course, I don’t have a phone. I get calls from Lourdes and Elodie, my cousin who lives here in Scottsdale, on the facility’s main line. It makes me feel like a prisoner.

“Good morning,” I say to shake off all this extra anxiety.

“Have a seat.” Dr. Caroline gestures to the chair across from her.

“Okay.” I take it, smoothing my hands over my knees as I sit.

“Did you see Nurse Lila?”

“Sure did.”

She looks up at me with a head tilted like a puppy. “How are we feeling today?”

We?

The question is so familiar it barely registers anymore. “I’m fine. Don’t know about you.”

She studies me again for a moment, pretty brown eyes blinking. “Let’s start with our daily orientation status. Can you tell me where in Chicago you are right now?”

Is this a trick?

“What?” I reply, hiding a thread of panic that will have me hog-tied to a gurney in eight seconds like…

My heart takes a jolt at more of these random thoughts clouding my brain.

My throat tightens. “I’m in Arizona.”