Page 20 of Break For Me
The word is a slap. He says it the exact same way he told me to pull over on the highway. No fear. No inflection. Just a clinical decision he has already filed away in his head.
"Uncuff me, or I break this frame and come find the key myself. I’ll dismantle this whole shack with my bare hands."
"If you break that frame, you’ll tear the sutures in your palm," he says, his voice not rising a single decibel. "The wound will reopen. I’ll have to debride the muscle without anesthesia because we’re out of ketamine. You’ll be in more pain than you can possibly imagine, and that hand will be a useless, necrotic stump for a month."
He sets the glass of water on a small wooden chair. He doesn't move any closer.
"Killian is stable," he continues. "I repaired the bowel and stopped the mesenteric hemorrhage. He needs constant monitoring. If you want to see him, you will stay on that cot until your blood pressure is functional and you stop looking like you’re about to pass out on the floor again."
I stare at him. The wall he builds around himself is flawless. Every word is precise. Every fact is a shield.
But I see the hard tension in his jaw. His thin shoulders are rigid as iron bars. He is standing in a room with a man who promised to snap his bones in half, and the sheer effort of not flinching is costing him more than he wants me to see.
He’s afraid. He’s just better at hiding it than most men are at showing it.
"Killian’s alive?"
"Yes. He’s lucky you found me."
"The medic?"
"Garrett is watching him. His vitals are steady. He’s resting."
I flex my right hand. The cold steel of the handcuff digs into the bone of my wrist, a biting pressure. My left hand pulses in its cage of gauze, a heavy, rhythmic throb that matches the frantic beat of my heart.
"Uncuff me. I won't touch you. You have my word."
His pale eyes narrow behind the crooked glasses. He’s running the odds. He’s calculating the risk the way he’d measure a dosage of morphine. I can practically hear the math clicking in his head, assessing the weight of my word against the potential impact of my fists.
"I’ll release you on one condition. You do not move from this cot until I clear you. If you stand up too fast, you’ll hit the floor, and I don't have the physical strength to lift you again. You weigh as much as an engine block."
A condition. The doctor is trying to negotiate with me. I want to laugh, but my ribs feel like they're being held together by rust and sheer spite. I settle for a low grunt of agreement.
"Fine. Get it over with."
He produces the handcuff key from his pocket. It’s a small, silver thing. He leans over me to reach the cuff on the crossbar of the cot. His arm crosses my chest. The sleeve of his bloodstained shirt brushes against my bare skin.
He’s warm. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint scent of bergamot soap and old, dried blood. His long fingers work the lock. The mechanism clicks, a small, quiet metallic victory. The steel releases from my wrist.
I pull my arm free. The skin is a red, angry, abraded ring. I rub it, feeling the burn.
He steps back immediately. The distance is a choice. He stays close enough to watch me, but far enough to bolt if I move.
Smart. Annoying, but smart.
"Sit up. Slowly."
I do. The room tilts violently on its axis. My vision greys out at the edges, a static-filled void. I grip the cot frame with my right hand until the world stops spinning. My head weighs a thousand pounds. My mouth tastes like iron and sour bile.
He hands me the water. I drain the glass in four long swallows, the cold liquid hitting my empty stomach like a rock. He hands me the white pill.
"Amoxicillin," he says. "You need it to keep the infection out of those sutures. I will not have you losing a hand on my watch."
I take it without a word. I don't argue with medicine. I saw a man in Dannemora lose a limb to a simple shank wound because the infirmary was empty for the weekend. I’m not losing my hand to a Russian’s knife.
He wraps a blood pressure cuff around my right bicep. The velcro is a harsh ripping sound in the quiet room. He pumps thebulb, the rubber wheezing rhythmically in his fist. He watches the gauge with a narrow, focused intensity that makes me feel like a specimen pinned under a lens.
"Ninety-two over sixty," he announces. "It’s low, but the trend is upward. You’re compensating." He pulls the cuff off. "I need to check the hand."
