Page 102

“A couple more days?” I groaned as I leaned back against the pillows. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Afraid not,” Leo replied. “Without mechanical suction, it takes time. I can keep giving you morphine until it comes out, but after that, you’ll have to tough it out, unfortunately.”

“We make our own medicine at home,” John said. “She’ll be fine.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “What kind of medicine? I’ve seen a lot of home remedies in the Wasteland, and most of them did more harm than good.”

John shot him an irritated glance. “You’ve worked with my sister. Do you think she’d give someone something that made things worse? She’s good at what she does.”

“I was surprised at how much she knew,” Leo conceded, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Different to the many quacks I’ve met on this side of the wall. Anyway, I should see to the dressing—”

“I’ll do it,” John cut in, and when Leo looked ready to object, he growled, “I know how to change a dressing, for fuck’s sake.”

Leo muttered something, but left the cabin, thankfully. I was in no mood to moderate an argument between the two men. John shook his head in disapproval, then grabbed a wooden bowl full of broth and a handful of foraged greens and sat in his chair by my bed.

“Do you have to be so prickly?” I asked. “He did save my life.”

John sighed. “I know. I’m grateful, but…he treats Kimmy and me like we’re total idiots. I get it, he’s a compound doctor, and we’re the worthless Wastelanders who, I don’t know, rub shit into wounds or sacrifice virgins to cure colds, but—”

I hacked a laugh at the expense of my poor ribs. “Do you sacrifice virgins? I thought that was a rumour.”

He grinned. “Why do you think I made sure, all those times, that you weren’t one? My only motive was protecting you.”

I giggled again, then groaned at the pain. “Stop making me laugh. It’s not as fun as it used to be.”

He rearranged his expression into something resembling neutral, but his lips twitched. “Alright. Eat, then.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad,” he said, forcing the bowl into my hands. “You need energy to heal.”

I grumbled but scooped up a spoonful of broth. The trouble came when I tried to raise it to my lips. I grimaced at the pain of lifting my arm, and switching hands didn’t help much. Any movement hurt, and my limbs felt heavy from the pain medicine.

“Here,” John said, holding out his hands. “Let me do it.”

“Feed me?” I asked, sounding cranky again. “I’m not a child.”

“I know that, but you’re in pain,” he replied, a thin veneer of patience over his tone. “Just let me help.”

“I’m not—”

“Claire,” he barked, “I’ve just spent the last few days terrified because my wife was dying and there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it. I watched a stranger cut you open in front of me and had to hold you down while you screamed. The least you can do is let me take care of you in the ways that I can. Let me be useful for a change.”

His hands were shaking, curled into fists on his lap, and he stared at the floor. The memory of his tears, his pain, suddenly returned to me. I can’t do this without you. I’m not strong enough. I held the bowl out to him without another word.

He steadied his hands and took it. Carefully, he scooped up a spoonful of broth and lifted it to my lips. The first hot mouthful was so unexpectedly pleasant that I groaned.

“I changed my mind,” I said with a sigh. “I’m starving.”

John smiled weakly. “That’s what I thought.”

I leaned back on my pillows and let him feed me in silence. He was slow and deliberate, pausing between each spoonful and watching me carefully. Though it was a little embarrassing, it was also surprisingly tender. I could never doubt that this man loved me in ways that defied reason.

“I had a dream,” I said between mouthfuls. The pain medicine was making me slightly loopy and uninhibited. “About my father.”

He hummed sympathetically. “Tell me about it.”

I did, recounting how I felt at its conclusion: grief mixed with a sense of closure.