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I’d like to think that I could never understand someone like Booker, but much to my disappointment, I do. He makes my brain do circles, and it’s impossible to stay one step ahead, but every day we spend together is another day where I learn to speak his language. “Well, I understand you,” I point out. “It’s not my fault if you haven’t figured me out yet.”
“How can I figure you out when you won’t stay the one person?”
“Isn’t that part of the fun?”
He doesn’t need to answer me because I know that it is. “Come. We have work to do.”
I follow him into the house and find the room brightly lit, with trays of instruments lined up and ready. His X-ray machine is out, and he’s got bandages and gauze, sewing needles, syringes full of clear liquid, scalpels and balms and more things I can’t name.
“Tonight, you can play with it all,” he tells me. “You’re going to be swimming in emergencies. Usually, I’d be at the arena, puppeteering my audience, but I handed that job off to sweet, boring Kennedy. Oh, how I do love a change.”
“Dale would be a big change,” I point out to him.
“But would it be a fun one? Who can say.”
“Only one way to find out.”
He laughs as he snaps his gloves into place. “Get ready, sneaky little snake. Our night begins.”
He’s barely got the words out when the first person knocks, and Booker calls out to them like a long-lost friend.
“Peter, my dear, what can we do for you tonight?”
Peter looks up, eyes glazed, hand pressed to his head. “Feels funny.”
“Oh dear, it seems someone has knocked his brain loose. What a curious one to begin with.” Booker steers him to the bed and turns to me. “Head high hits are against the rules of Peril, so it’s rare for us to have a concussion. I told you we were in for some treats tonight. Get that little light over there. This will be fun.”
Peter groans and struggles to focus on Booker. “Doesn’t feel fun.”
“No, really, sweet pea?” Booker says, sounding sympathetic. “What does it feel like?”
“Pain.”
Booker hums, hands running through Peter’s hair as he finds the place with the damage. When he does, he pauses, and I notice the way his hand presses softly. “Right here, isn’t it?”
Peter hisses, and Booker’s eyes light up. “Yes.”
“I need you to be more specific about this pain. How does it feel?”
“Like someone is beating against my skull.”
Some of the eagerness leaves Booker’s expression. “Is it a throbbing? A burning? An ache or an itch?”
“Ah … none of those. It just hurts.”
For the first time all night, Booker loses his smile. “Right. Sasha, come here and tend to the man. He’s determined to be useless.”
Useless? He came to us for help, not the other way around. This is one of those moments where it makes me question if I understand Booker at all. Just when I think I’m getting him …
“Right.” I search my memory for what Booker showed me to do in the event of a head injury. Ice first, I think. Then checking his vitals. “Do you remember what happened?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I was hit in the head with a stick.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t think so.”
I grab the ice pack and hand it over so Peter can press it to his head. “Headache? Feeling nauseous?”
