Page 24 of Running Feral

“Everything, obviously. But he stopped getting up and moving around a couple days ago. I know he needs to rest, especially with his ankle looking so bad, but is it really good for him to lie completely still for twenty-four hours a day? It’s been three days, and I’m worried he’s going to be absorbed into the couch. I feel like he should be moving at least a little. Sitting up. Talking to me, even if it’s to yell at me. I don’t care. Just something.”

I can see all the words being absorbed into Micah’s brain and then run through whatever mental nursing calculator he has that tells him how to fix people like a wizard.

“Yeah, that’s not great. I’m not surprised, though. Being in an abusive situation takes a huge toll on your body, even when you’re not actively being physically harmed. It’s being constantly on edge that wears you down. Now that he’s somewhere safe, it makes sense that he’d need to recoup a lot of that. But not moving at all isn’t going to help. Especially if he’s lying flat all the time. He needs to sit up and breathe like normal or he could eventually fuck up his lungs. And at least be moving the ankle, so it’s not freezing up.”

I turn the problem over in my mind. I’m pretty sure, after the last conversation we had, that if I try to tell him what to do, he’s going to tell me to shove it up my ass.

I’m not sure what I’m about to say, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s when Sav finally finishes making the world’s slowest margarita. It’s pretty, though. It is, in fact, an excessively large serving, on the rocks with a tidy little salt rim and a nice garnish.

The whole thing makes me disproportionately proud, because it’s such a small thing and he’s a competent adult. But I feel less ridiculous when I look at Micah’s face. Because he is gazing at Sav like the man really did break my kneecaps for him and it’s the most amazing gift he could ever have received.

He doesn’t say anything, but he gives his stepbrother a wide smile that has him blushing all over again before taking a big sip. As soon as he does, he acts like he’s going to swoon sideways before taking another one.

“Yes. Thank you. You have brought me perfection. I’ll take one million more, and you can also start making these for me at home. Much obliged.”

Even while he’s sipping—gulping—his drink, you can tell he’s smiling by the crinkle in his eyes, and Sav continues to squirm silently under the praise.

I don’t understand anything about their dynamic, and I’m not sure I need to.

“Wait. Gunnar, let me ask you a question,” Micah says when he remembers that I exist again. “What’s your goal here?”

“Where?”

He tosses his head in the direction of my apartment. “With him. Helping him. What do you want to get out of it?”

I don’t like the feelings that phrasing brings up in me.

“I don’t want anything. He needs help.”

Micah waves his hand at me as if he can brush my words away.

“Yeah, obviously. And you’re a decent human being. We all want him to be safe. But doyouwant to be the one to help him? Or do you just want him to get help, however’s easiest? Like, how involved are you in this process?”

Not a single word in the English language exists for me right now. And even if they did, I still wouldn’t be able to string together an answer to that question. Either because I don’t know, or I’m not willing to admit it. Maybe both.

“Look, I’m fried. He isn’t sleeping, so I’m not sleeping, and I can’t think straight anymore. It’s quiet tonight, so I’m going to go upstairs to check on him. Sav, can you watch the bar for me? Kasia’s closing tonight. Maybe you two could swing by before you go home and you could check on him, Micah? He might talk to you.”

Micah nods. His expression is neutral, but he’s watching me with a level of attention that definitely isn’t.

I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I dig around until I find my spare key and give it to Sav, then tell Kasia I’ll be upstairs tonight unless they need me. She seems to have it under control, though.

It’s more proof that she’s stressed out by something. Whenever she is, all she wants to do is work. She suddenly has the capacity to be three bartenders at once, as well as bossing the rest of us around about not cleaning enough or stock levels or anything else she decides to throw her anger into.

It’s barely a few minutes before I’m trudging up to the apartment and letting myself in. The lights are off and the curtains drawn, as I expected. I’m not sure which horror movie is on the TV this time, but it’s really fucking gross. I think a woman is sawing at her own neck with piano wire.

I don’t know what to do about any of this. I feel completely powerless in a way that I never have before, and this is hardly my first rodeo.

“Tobias?” I whisper, in case he is asleep.

Of course, he’s not. His head pops up so he can look at me over the back of the couch as I move closer. He wears the same blank, withdrawn expression I’ve been seeing on him for a while now. There’s no way this kind of exhaustion isn’t eating away at him, even if he’s not moving around.

I want to touch him. Hug him. Anything to bring him a little more back into this reality, but I agreed with myself that all that contact would only cause problems.

“Hey,” he says. Nothing else. He doesn’t ask me why I’m back so early, because I’m sure he has no idea what time it is.

A sudden surge of anger hits me.

Not anger at him. Anger at the situation and my incredible impotence in it. Anger that I’m not helping him, no matter how hard I try. And definitely anger at that asshole for putting him here in the first place.

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