Page 49 of Stealing Tink

They can make us long for the things that never existed.

Things that would only hurt us if we ever managed to get our hands on them.

“You’ll need to be prone for me to examine your wings,” says Lars, looking at me like I’m an idiot for sitting up.

Why? I write, partially out of stubbornness, but mostly because I don’t like the idea of being face-down. It feels helpless in an already vulnerable situation. Besides, that was always how Peter made me lie when he bloodlet my wings.

“Why can’t she sit up while you examine her?” says the Nomad.

Lars gives the Nomad a blank expression. “I always examine wings with the subject in the prone position.”

The Nomad’s smile practically slithers. “Make an exception.”

I’m not sure why the Nomad cares, but I have a difficult time not being grateful when Lars finally bends to his will.

“Very well,” says Lars, leaning down underneath his counter and pulling out a set of metal clamps.

What are those for? I scribble.

“Restraining. Obviously,” says Lars.

I don’t know why I glance at the Nomad instead of writing my thoughts on the parchment, but I tell myself it’s because it’s quicker. Definitely not because last night’s dream has me caught in some sick dependency with the Nomad.

“Those won’t be necessary,” says the Nomad.

“The biopsy will be painful. I’m going to have to tap into the spine of her wings. If she doesn’t remain still, it’s possible the procedure could cause permanent damage.”

I should be sweating at the idea of permanent damage to my wings, but I accepted I might never fly again long ago, and right now, it’s all I can do to rip my gaze away from those chains.

Images of that cave with Peter in the days after he’d tricked me into coming with him to Neverland assault my mind. The pain of having my wings let, all the while, Peter whispering apologies that meant nothing.

The Nomad moves in front of my vision, crouching so he’s eye level with me as I sit on the table.

“Don’t fret, Wanderer. There’ll be no more chains.”

I shouldn’t, but I let my eyes wander to his. To the cool blue my subconscious so longs to trust.

“She needs something to hold her down,” says Lars under his breath.

“She can hold onto me,” says the Nomad, without looking at him, without tearing his eyes from mine.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want anyone touching my wings ever again. I don’t want to be on this table. Don’t want to be examined, experimented on.

If it were just the ability to fly again at stake, I’d walk away and never look back.

But as it is, I can’t even mouth the word “No.”

“Hold onto me,” the Nomad says, his voice just as firm as when he said it to Lars, but this time, it’s quieter, surer. Firm like a taut tether, not like a wall.

I nod, shakily, then take the Nomad’s hands.

They’re firm, and to be quite honest, the pressure he’s placing on my hands hurts. I think that might be intentional. Like how I used to dig my talons into my palms until I bled to distract myself from the pain of Peter’s bloodletting.

“If you want to stop, all you have to do is shake your head,” says the Nomad.

I nod, and Lars gets to work.

At first, it’s just a tickle on the top spine of my left wing. Not painful, except in the memories it brings back, back when I thought Peter ran his fingers over my wings because he loved them.