The will to live.
As his lyrics wrap around me, I sink back into the dark, reaching for the music, stretching both hands out, taking that voice with me. The last bit of sunshine in a world without light.
I wake to a world of sound and pain. Unfortunately, I can’t simply dive back under the blanket of sleep. I wish I could. Wish I could escape the volume, the tiny hammers beating inside my body, fighting to burst out of my skin. No such luck.
The garbled voices build to an active rumble, separating into distinct words. And there are other sounds as well. The slap of running feet. A sharp clang. Countless small, identifiable noises that alert me to the fact that I’m in a place inhabited by people. It’s not just Boots with me anymore.
Then the hands that hold me vanish. I’m on a bed, and even though it’s soft and yielding, I whimper, missing that heartbeat against my ear. Cloth tears, an ugly rip. Cool air washes over me and I moan, curling my abused body inward, wanting desperately to ease the inferno raging inside me. More fabric rips, and hands move me. Roll me onto my back. Air crawls over my belly, and I dimly realize that my clothes are being cut off me.
Normally this would have fired all kinds of alarms to my system, but it seems like a secondary concern now. If even that. Funny how priorities shift. What would have seemed so important before, so critical, doesn’t even register on my panic scale.
I keep my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, listening, feeling, assessing what’s happening around me as I push down the fear.
There are several people in the room. Multiple shoes sound, stepping and scuffing on the floor.
“She’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Who is she?” a second male voice demands. Instantly, I don’t like this one. It’s hard with a nasal quality. “Did you blindfold her before bringing her here?”
Silence meets this. Everything around me seems to go still.
The ugly voice again. “Damn it, answer me!”
“Look at her,” Boots finally answers. I recognize the dry response, the velvet, low timbre. I really need to learn his name. “It’s not a concern. She’s in no condition to remember—”
“It’s my concern!”
“I’ll take responsibility—”
“Fat lot of good that does us if she’s an Agency spy and we all end up captured.”
“You’re overreacting. I found her practically dead.”
“Did she say anything . . . are there others? Where are—”
“She hasn’t exactly been a wealth of information.” If I didn’t hurt so much—wasn’t so scared—I might have smiled at his response. In another scenario. Another life.
That other guy keeps pressing, clearly unhappy to have me here. “Is she what all the commotion is about on the wire? And all that gunfire last night? Some of those other cells out there don’t know their right from their left—”
“Well, since there’s a bullet buried in her shoulder, I’m guessing yes.” Again, I fight a smile. He’s funny. “She’s lucky to be alive.”
Hands grip me and roll me onto my stomach. At least my face is out of sight. They don’t know I’m awake yet. Sure fingers probe at my gunshot wound, and a scream tears past my teeth as my chin lurches off the mattress.
“Well, she’s awake.”
My eyes flare wide to a room full of bright artificial light. For a moment I’m confused. The place has that overworked, stale smell layered with the requisite aroma of antiseptic, but it’s no hospital. That much I know.
I can’t hold my head up any longer. The innocuous face of a middle-aged man drops eye level with me where my cheek presses flat to the bed. He wears wire-thin glasses that sit on the middle of his nose.
“Hello there, I’m Dr. Phelps. We’re going to get you patched up. What’s your name?”
“Doctor?” I repeat, like I don’t understand the word’s meaning. In a way, I don’t. Last time I checked, I was in the middle of nowhere, sans civilization. How am I suddenly in the care of a doctor?
“No, your name, my dear,” he prods with a smile, and I realize he’s making a joke. “I’m the doctor.”
He’s the doctor. This plays over and over in my mind. As in a real doctor. Someone who might help me not die.
“It’s okay. Doc’s going to take care of you.”
I lift my head at the familiar voice, searching for and finding Boots. Only he looks more dangerous than I remember. His hair near black. His features more angular. His jaw rigid in the harsh lighting. The room is mostly white, and he stands out starkly against the sterile surroundings. There’s little in his face that matches the voice that sang softly to me as he carried me across the desert. But then he moves closer, placing a palm over my forehead, holding it there with a gentleness that makes something inside me flutter loose.
“You brought me here,” I say dumbly.
“I said I’d get you the help you needed.” He flashes me a smile, his features easing, losing some of their harshness. “Now do yourself a favor and get better.” His gaze holds mine, like he can will me to health.
I feel him leaving me, the warmth of his body departing, slipping from me. I grab for him. My fingers meet skin, firm and solid under my fingertips. He has become that familiar thing. Something to hang on to.
His face lowers close to mine.
“Shh.” His voice still strikes me as lyrical and deep. Like a low purr. “You’re safe here. You’re in good hands. Better than whoever was helping you before. We’re the best. I won’t let anything happen to you.” I feel myself soften, relax, but I don’t let go. My fingers have a mind of their own, and more strength than I would have thought. Especially when I’m this weak. This hurt and tired.