~

Chapter Fifty-one

~

“How can walkin’ on a treadmill possibly be good for the thousand bullet holes in me,” I snarled at my therapist.

“Shut up or I’ll turn the speed up,” she said. Troll medical folk are harsh. “And it wasn’t a thousand, ya cry baby.”

“Worst part of this is eatin’ food from a chef who only knows how to char crickets.”

“I’ll tell the dietitian to xnay the beef and all ya’ll see is crickets until ya leave here.”

“Did I say chef?” I asked. “I meant entomologist. He ever see a cow before I came here?”

“Ya know ya’re the most hated patient this hospital has ever had.” She reached over my shoulder and turned the treadmill speed up two notches. Trolls and those long stinkin’ arms.

“And why do ya have to stand behind me with us harnessed together? I feel like a plow mule.”

“Oh, I wish I had a mule whip, to hurry ya along, ya slacker. A muzzle would be extra useful. Ya play nice and I’ll let ya walk the halls with that handsome Jam tomorrow.”

“Ya think I’m handsome, darlin’?” he said from the next treadmill.

“All except for yar face,” she said.

Jam cackled. If she didn’t have me strapped to her, I’d bump her off the treadmill. I turned the machine to the slowest settin’, told her I was done. I knew she’d make me finish with a walk off. As though I’m gonna cramp up like an elite sprinter.

I hurt so much—one big purple pickle.

“Ya’re such a lightweight,” Jam mumbled.

“If I could turn my head—” I pointed a finger at him. “I’d give ya a nasty stare.”

“That would hurt me to my core,” he said.

My therapist disconnected us. “Let’s see ya get down without breakin’ yar neck. As much as it would lift my spirits, please don’t. I’m eager to get ya out of here. I wouldn’t be popular if I delayed yar departure.”

“I may just extend my stay,” I mumbled.

I happily flipped the treadmill off, but just stood there a long moment holdin’ the grab rails, enjoyin’ the stillness after it came to a stop. Every motion made me throb everywhere. Every breath. How could a bein’ have so many places hurtin’ at once and thoroughly in between? Why didn’t they ever cast my wrist?

Hmm.

“Ya need a hand?” Jam asked.

“Can I just stand here and cry for a bit?”

“Ya’re such a baby,” she said.

I searched for a comeback. “When I pay my bill, I’m denyin’ all the physical therapy charges.”

“Aw. Ya know how to hurt a hen,” she said.

~

Nuel

~

Everything seemed mostly normal, except for the empty sky still. Crazy traffic. But no manic riots. Lines just a bit long at the gas stations and grocery stores we passed. But bein’ out, my skin crawled.

We’d waited until midday so the sun would shine down on and not through the coupe’s tinted glass. Seemed safer to be invisible. Which is dumb. We’re drivin’ an OM. There wouldn’t be humans sittin’ in it.

The line trickled through the checkpoint at the entrance of the troll community. Twenty minutes and countin’. The security was tight. Dozens of trolls with mean-lookin’ guns hangin’ from their shoulders stood everywhere. They rolled mirrors under every car, inspected most trunks. A good portion was bein’ turned away.

Would they let us in?

Finally we were next. A policeman ask for the reason of today’s visit, studied my driver’s license, then my face, twice over, then scanned the license with a thin’ like they use at the box store checkout, and he read the display.

“Ya’re good to go, ma’am. Have a good day.”

I breathed a little easier, and thanked Papa again for comin’ with me as I pulled forward.

Parkin’ was tight at the hospital. We had to drive around for fifteen minutes before we found someone pullin’ out. The riots meant a lot of injured folk. The news reported the troll hospitals had taken on a lot of human patients to ease the congestion at the other hospitals. Would that buy the community any goodwill? Probably not.

Ironic, those injured riotin’ against giants would find ’emselves relyin’ on the goodwill of trolls.

I shivered as we entered the lobby. As though I could forget trolls like it cool.

“Cool in here,” Papa mumbled.

The ceilin’ was high in the lobby, cavern-like, since the space reached up another floor. But the ceilin’s were a good twenty feet high down the hall too, includin’ inside the elevator. Almost as though an angry statement against the world for crampin’ ’em up everywhere else.

A policeman in uniform, an ogre, sat in a chair outside Kriz’ room. He demanded ID. Studied both my and Papa’s driver’s licenses like there would be a test later. My temperature flared, with awareness. Even here, they worried about keepin’ Kriz safe. Of course. His photo was flashed on the news every ten minutes. Cousin to the face of all evil.

“Yar patient isn’t here right now,” the officer explained. “But probably be back in a second. Been at therapy over an hour. Make yarselves at home.” He did offer us a smile then.

We paced for maybe two minutes before we heard the snipin’ comin’ up the hall. If ya didn’t know better, ya’d think Jam and Kriz hate each other. Papa’s eyes opened wide. “It’s their way,” I said. He cocked his head. Maybe they’d been reserved at the house.

Or maybe Kriz is in a really bad mood.

Jam entered first and his face burst into glee. “Look what the orcs dragged in,” he shouted, throwin’ his arms out for a hug. Uncharacteristic of him. Don’t think he’d ever acted better than aloof around me before. He wore scrubs that were a mix of every pastel color in the world. Looked good on him.

“No one can let me sleep, can they,” Kriz mumbled.

When Jam let me go, and I finally got a look at Kriz, I sucked in a breath.

“Ain’t he ugly,” Jam asked, with too much humor and vim to be appropriate.

No extended arms from Kriz. Not that I expected him to even be happy about seein’ me. But he’d visited me in the hospital, even if he didn’t understand why. I had to repay the favor. Whether I wanted to or not.

He looked one degree better than a cadaver, only for the obvious reason—he was movin’ under his own power. Normal plump features absent. Face a mural of bruises. A bandage bulged at his throat and just above his temple, a wrap extendin’ around his head. He strode stiffly, usin’ a cane.

Blood spotted bandages on his arms, and several spots on his gown, which he didn’t worry much about keepin’ closed. This is a bull who told the cleaners to triple starch his khakis, dress shirts, and jeans. I couldn’t remember ever seein’ him in a tee, but he would have had ’em starched stiff too.

Early mornin’s his shirts could bounce bullets. Not a timely joke, maybe.

“Ya survived, eh?” he said, without eye contact, limpin’ for his bed.

A troll hen in pink and puke-green scrubs told him she’d be back early in the mornin’ to pester him some more, and disappeared out the door.

“My physical torturer,” Kriz mumbled. Jam helped him get under a sheet and blanket, bein’ quite the attentive nanny. Kriz struggled to find a comfortable position on his side, as Jam helped him get a pillow between his knees, then positioned another one he could rest his arm on.

My eyes welled. Holy dragon pooh.

“Good to see ya,” Pa told ’em.

I didn’t want to look at Kriz. The sight of him physically hurt.