Page 25

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “No, you’d be in real trouble if it were streaking,” I say. I pull her arm gently, a little more open with my left hand, and trace from her wrist to her elbow, and then gently up her bicep. “Red lines from here to here—that would be bad news. That’d be how you know.”

My fingers are still moving, I realize, almost grazing the edge of her T-shirt sleeve. I swallow hard and pull back.

“That would be infection spreading,” I say. Quickly. “I mean, I’m not a doctor, to be clear, but I know enough to know that’s when you probably hit up urgent care.”

She nods. “Duly noted.”

The moment, if there was one, has passed.

“Pick up some Hibiclens for the next time you wash it. It’s like surgical prep soap. Kill anything gross that’s on there. And then maybe some standard triple antibiotic, if you want to be really precautionary. But I promise you, I keep everything obsessively sterile here.”

“No, I know you do,” Tink says. “I’m sure this is just my user error.” She laughs, this high, melodic sound I’ve never heard out of her before, and it’s kind of…magical. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have even brought it up except Wendy noticed it, so…” She gives a rueful little smile.

“Well, try your best to notice it too,” I say. “I don’t think any of us wants you to end up septic.”

“Hah.” She smiles, almost shyly. “Thanks, Kit.”

She lowers her eyes, and when she does, I notice just how long her eyelashes are. If that’s a girl thing or a Tink thing, I don’t know, but it’s…lovely.

“You can let go of my arm now,” she says. “If you’re done.”

Oh God. I drop her like she’s blazing hot. “Sorry. Of course.”

Except, I think, my heart pounding in my throat, am I?

CHAPTER 7

TINK

The next morning, I do something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. So long it feels like an actual lifetime ago.

I take a real shower.

A long shower. An everything shower, not that washing my hair really adds that much time to the whole affair. But still.

The air blooms hot and steamy around me, smelling like vanilla and hibiscus and mocha and lavender and frankly way too many individual scents at once for it to make any sense. It’s giving me a headache, honestly. But it’s worth it.

I turn a tiny semicircle in the shower and let the hot water pound down my back, over my head, down over my eyes and face, taking the latest layer of foamy body wash with it to the drain. After Kit looked at the tattoo, I had to run to the drugstore to get the wound wash stuff that he recommended, and when I was there, the siren call of the personal care aisle was too much to resist. All the bottles of shampoos, conditioners, scrubs, oils, lotions, and exfoliants I picked up are really testing the strength of the suction cup that’s holding our pathetic little shower caddy to the tiles. But I don’t care.

I roll my neck side to side, letting the heat loosen the muscles, and close my eyes. Nothing but the rushing sound of water, the light groaning of the pipes, the hiss of droplets sublimating into vapor⁠—

Thmpthmpthmp.

Someone pounds on the door. “Yo, dude, what’s taking so long?”

I jump in place, almost skidding on the puddle of lathered-up body wash around my feet. “Uh…just taking a shower?”

“Tink?” It’s Fox’s voice, I recognize now. I’m getting better at telling him and Kit apart, even as his tone immediately lightens realizing it’s me. “Oh. Um. Sorry. I thought it…I thought you were Kit.”

I shake my head, not that he can see me, and wrap my arms around my body just out of habit as the shower rains down on me. Stupid—not like Fox has X-ray vision. But still. “Nope.” Pause. “Do you…need the bathroom?”

Silence.

“Uh…no,” he says at last. “It’s fine. I’ll…go to the basement.”

There’s a single toilet down there, next to the laundry hookups—basically in a closet. Gross, if you ask me, with no sink and probably with no toilet paper, but I guess that’s fine for Fox’s purposes. I listen to the thudding of his footsteps departing and realize my heart is beating just as hard in my chest.

After that, I don’t feel much compulsion to keep going. The water goes from feeling pleasantly hot to that dry-skin scorching feeling, so after a final rinse, I kill the water and step out, grabbing my second indulgent purchase—a fluffy purple towel from Valu-Mart that I’m sure will disintegrate into pills and fuzz after a few more washes—and wrap it around myself. I still brought my clothes in with me—out of habit—but for the first time I don’t feel like I especially need to rush getting dressed. I take my time drying off, smoothing body cream onto my skin—God, so much better than the watery unisex store-brand stuff—rolling deodorant onto hairless pits. By the time I’m finished, the fog on the mirror has dissipated, and I can see my reflection pretty clearly—me.