Page 33 of Burn

His lips curl into a satisfied smirk, “Then get the fuck outta my sight. Back to your fucking dorm.” He steps aside and motions for me to pass.

I nod once and choke out, “Yes, sir.”

I walk slowly past Burgess. The guard who cracked his knuckles head fakes me as I near him, and when I don’t flinch, instead allowing my lips to curl in a slight smirk, his face flushesand that fucking grin drops. He takes a step toward me. Every muscle in my body locks, anticipating the fight, but another guard presses a hand to his chest, directing him to walk the other way. I keep my head high and back straight as I walk to my room, knowing full well I just solidified a massive target on myfucking back.

Salute

Lex

I make it about ten minutes on the phone with Blake before the pain in my throat and the escalating coughs have me handing the receiver to Lane, who tells her I’ve reached my limit. In those ten minutes, she did most of the talking, catching me up on her life back home, her new job, the college course she’s wrapping up, and reminding me about her wedding.

“You’re coming, right?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

Anxiety had curled through my stomach at the mere mention of returning to Coldwater, but I promised her I would do everything I could to be there. She sounds different, but she would sound different, wouldn’t she? It’s been three years since I last saw her, and probably just as long since our last phone call.

Lane hands me a cup of ice chips, and when she speaks, I’m reminded that minutes before the phone rang, I was on the verge of a full-scale collapse that would ultimately result in the hospital sedating me.

“They couldn’t tell me much,” she starts, her hand covering mine. “They couldn’t tell me anything, really. No one else has been by to see you. There were a couple of calls in the hours after you first came in, but they don’t take messages.”

Dave sits on the other side of the room, his eyes glued to his phone, but I can tell he’s listening.

The day passes in a blur of nurse visits and stories about the kids. Lane hovers, encouraging me to eat whenever possible, and Dave manages to make me laugh when he tells me how Lola threw up in a vending machine last week.

Later in the evening, the smell of smoke lingering in my hair becomes too much, and I beg Lane to help me shower. She hesitates when I ask, and chews on her bottom lip for a moment, but she relents, sitting with her back to me while I massage shampoo into my hair. She doesn’t notice when I start to cry silently. My body is so tired, and pain ricochets through my limbs from standing for so long.

“Lane,” I sniffle.

She spins, concern on her face, and when she sees that I’ve propped myself up on the accessibility handle, she shoots up and into the shower with me. The water soaks her clothes, and I come apart, sobbing into her shoulder.

She’s halfway through conditioning my hair, massaging her fingers into my scalp when I’m calm enough to joke, “I could get used to this. No wonder you have three kids.” She smiles, but doesn’t say anything, so I reach for her arm, pulling her attention to my face. “Thanks, Lane. I’m sorry.”

“About what, babe?”

“About this. Taking you away from the kids, the fact that you’re soaking wet in the shower with me. Bet you didn’t think you were going to get full nudity out of the deal.”

She chuckles, then reaches for the faucet and cuts off the water. It takes three rounds of shampooing for the water to run clear of soot. I’m sitting on the toilet while she combs my hair, when we hear Dave on the phone in the other room.

“I know, Mom,” he says, his voice lowered. “I’m not sure. We’ll be home as soon as we can. We miss them, too.” There’s a pause before he adds, “I’ll have Lane FaceTime them when she’s got a minute, okay?”

Lane sighs, and I look up at her. Their life is so much less simple than mine. They have three kids, who I’m sure missthem terribly. For them to be here, they had to arrange round-the-clock care.

“Lane, you guys can go,” I tell her.

“Don’t be silly. We’ll stay as long as you need us.”

I can hear the homesickness in her tone. She misses her babies. She helps me back to the bed, dragging my I.V. behind us, and pressing the call button. The evening nurse reconnects the other monitors and comments that my oxygen levels seem to drop when I stand or exert myself.

“You need to try to stay in bed, understand?” She’s stern when she asks.

“Got it.” I’m tempted to salute her.

She continues to check my stats, and Dave pulls Lane out of the room and into the hall. With the door open, I can hear him tell her he needs to go back to work and ask if she wants to stay. He’ll come back on the weekend. I listen to her on the phone with her kids. Lola is a wreck; her sobs ring through the speaker, “Mommy, come home. I miss you!”

“Lane, go talk to your daughter,” I sigh.

“It’s okay,” she replies. I can see the guilt on her face, and I’m sure it’s mirrored on my own.

“Go. Please. This is killing me.”

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