Page 6 of Starve
“Or I die because Bluebone ridge is haunted, cursed, and probably falling apart,” I reply sweetly, unable to help myself. “And the fact you didn’t immediately refute my statement tells me you don’t think I’m wrong.”
“I think there are places I’d rather be than the top of the mountain, but if I had to be on a mountain, there are worse ones than this one.” Her tone is just as overly friendly as earlier, and it makes my lips twitch into a reluctant smile. Though her grin falls as she looks down, and reaches forward to snatch my fingers away from my palm. “You’ve got to leave that alone,” she scolds gently, then sighs worriedly.
“Oh.” I look down and belatedly realize I’d been messing with the cut in my palm that’s now stitched up and still half-numb. “I didn’t realize…” I trail off, not wanting to admit I hadn’t realizedI was doing it. Just like I didn’t realize I was cutting myself earlier.
But I guess that’s why I’m here.
Because I’m stuck with a case ofI didn’t realizein the worst way imaginable.
“Yeah. I’ll uh, I’ll work on that. I wouldn’t want them to strap me into a wheelchair with oven mitts on my hands so I can’t poke at it.” My retort is a bit lame, and a little rambling, but I’m not at my best right now. Truthfully, I’m proud of myself for not being a toddler-like mess on the floor, refusing to go anywhere and clutching onto any nailed down fixture in the ambulance.
The only thing stopping me is how embarrassing that would be, and the fact that the EMT beside me looks like she could bodily remove me from the ambulance without a problem.
I didn’t realize we stopped moving while we chatted, so the doors opening make me jerk. But I recover quickly and am about to get to my feet when I see the orderly outside with her hands clasped around the handles of a wheelchair. “I don’t need that,” I’m quick to say, wanting to keep whatever dignity I have left semi-intact.
But the woman gives me a withering look, not bothering to smile. “Sorry, sweetie,” she tells me in a voice bordering on condescending. “I hate to tell you, but everybody has to come in here the same way.”
“Even though I can use my legs just fine?”
“Especially then.” She makes a gesture toward the wheelchair, and I glance back at the EMT like she’s suddenly my ally in this situation. But one look at her apologetic smile tells me that’s not happening.
And it hits me again how much I don’t want to do this. How I’d really rather be absolutely anywhere but here at Bluebone Ridge.
I don’t want to do this.
More than that, I’mterrifiedof those doors closing behind me and some doctor making the decision that I’ll never be fit to leave.
There’s no way I can stay here.
I can’t?—
I’m pulled from my spiral when the paramedic grabs my hand suddenly. When I look down in surprise, I see she’s holding my fingers in hers, keeping it away from my injured palm. A glance at her face shows me a silent warning there, and I ruefully remind myself that pulling out the stitches in my palm certainly won’t make my stay here any shorter.
Taking a breath, I force myself to climb out of the ambulance. With the help of the driver, who grabs my uninjured hand to support me, I jump to the gravel that crunches under my feet. The air up here is somehow colder, even though we’re only about thirty miles away from Whippoorwill Gap. But I guess being this much “closer to God”will do that to a place. In my hoodie, I shudder and draw my arms around myself to glare dubiously at the wheelchair, unable to stop myself from going through every option in my brain to get out of sitting down.
“Not going to work,” the orderly says, not unkindly. “Though I can’t blame you for trying. But the sooner you sit, the sooner we can be done and you can be out again. Okay?” There’s something convincingly gentle in her words that I believe, and even though I’d absolutely prefer to be doing anything else, I force myself to sit gingerly in the wheelchair.
Immediately, I hate it. I feel small, and awkward, and inept as she talks to the paramedics, and I can feel my shoulders hunching protectively while I take a minute to look around the courtyard.
I don’t expect to see awolf.
On further inspection—since I have nothing better to do—I realize it’s not a wolf, but a very convincingly wolf-like dog. Witha mix of grey and red-brown fur on its head and shoulders, it looks regal and wild in the courtyard. It takes a moment longer for me to notice the leash tied to a nearby railing, and the way the dog stares at a nearby door makes me think its owner is there.
Seconds later, the door opens, admitting a scowling man into the courtyard. The dog scrambles up, though when the man unties its leash and yanks on it, the dog hunches, reminding me of my defensiveness. A bitter taste rises in my throat, and I watch as he jerks again on the leash, not bothering to give the dog any kind of verbal command but expecting it to know what he wants, anyway. And judging by the flinch anytime the man looks at him, I can’t imagine the dog is very fond of the man.
I want to look away.
I want to look anywhere else, because I hate seeing animals mistreated, but I can’t help watching. Even when the orderly starts pushing the wheelchair over the sidewalk toward the double doors of Bluebone Ridge, my gaze stays glued to the sight of the man dragging the dog toward the gates.
“Why is there a dog?” I find myself asking, though in a few seconds I can no longer see either the dog or its handler.
“Oh, Moro?” The orderly doesn’t look back, though her voice is a little tense, like this is a subject she wants to avoid. “She’s not a pet, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or a therapy dog. We get predators up here sometimes, so having a dog around can help scare off unwanted four-legged visitors.” She laughs weakly at her own words, though I don’t give her the benefit of doing the same.
Even though she never did anything to me, I can’t help being resentful of the orderly and everyone here. Well, everyone except Moro. There’s no way I could ever hate a dog, and my heart hurts for her.
I cross and uncross my ankles in the wheelchair, feeling prickly and fidgety the whole time. The doors to the building are automatic, and I can’t help wanting to curl up into a ball and die as she wheels me to a large front desk where she stops to chat about my file with the man behind the desk.
But now, we’re not alone. Not just because of the desk attendants, but also because of the other patients here—a few of whom glance my way. Some of them are in street clothes like me, and some in light blue outfits that remind me of scrubs. Most are wearing light jackets or long-sleeved shirts under the short-sleeves of the powder blue outfits.
