Page 126 of Lock Every Door

“You’re fine,” he says. “Everything is fine. Right now, we only needed the onekidney.”

THREE DAYSLATER

46

Hours pass. Maybe days.

It’s hard to tell now that my existence has been reduced to two modes—asleep and awake.

Right now, I’m awake, although the fog makes it difficult to know for sure. It’s so overpowering that everything has the feel of a dream.

No, not a dream.

A nightmare.

In this maybe-nightmare state, I hear voices just outside the door. A man and a woman.

“You need to rest,” the man says.

I note the accent. Dr. Wagner.

“What I need is to see her,” the woman says.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Ask me if I give a damn. Now push me in there.”

That’s followed by a hum. Rubber wheels on the floor. Someone in motion.

Because of the fog, I can’t recoil when a hand, leathery and rough, clasps my own. My eyelids part just enough to see Greta Manville, looking frail and small in a wheelchair. Her skin clings to her bones. Veins zigzag beneath the papery whiteness. She reminds me of a ghost.

“I didn’t want it to be you,” she says. “I need you to know that.”

I close my eyes and say nothing. I don’t have the strength.

Greta senses this and fills the void with more chatter.

“It was supposed to be Ingrid. That’s what they told me. During her interview, they asked for her medical records and she handed them over. Lo and behold, she was a potential match. But then she left and there you were. Another match. I had no choice in the matter. It was you or certain death. So I chose life. You saved me, Jules. I will always be grateful for that.”

I open my eyes again, just so I can glare at her. I see that she’s wearing a hospital gown similar to mine. Light blue. The same color as the bedroom wallpaper in 12A. Near the collar, someone has pinned a golden brooch just like the one Marjorie Milton was wearing.

An ouroboros.

I pull my hand away from hers and scream until I fall back to sleep.

47

I wake.

I sleep.

I wake again.

Some of the fog has burned away. Now I can move my arms, wiggle my toes, feel the painful intrusion of the IV and catheter that invade my body. I can even tell that someone’s in the room with me. Their presence pokes through my solitude like a splinter through skin.

“Chloe?” I say, hoping against hope that all of this has been a nightmare. That when I open my eyes I’ll be back on Chloe’s couch, heartbroken about Andrew and worried about finding a new job.

I’d settle for that kind of worry.

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