Page 19 of Scythe & Sparrow
With one last glance around the corner, I carefully set the wrench down on the worktop and slink back to the open door. I leave the barn. Jog down the driveway. I don’t glance at the bat as I go and keep my eyes instead on the road ahead.
When I walk through the door of my house a short while later, I shed my damp jacket and soaked boots before heading to the kitchen. My fingers still tremble as I drop an ice cube into a glass and fill it halfway with bourbon. I knock back the amber liquid. The burn slides down my throat. It does nothing to destroy the image of Matt Cranwell in the barn, his back hunched as he worked on the engine, the wrench beckoning me with urges I once thought I’d overcome. My hand still feels emptywithout it, the rage in my flesh not cooled by the chilled glass in my palm.
I pour myself another and take the bottle with me as I head toward my room.
“You motherfucking baby. Get your shit together,” Rose’s voice says as I pass the bathroom. My steps falter and I pause outside the door. “Not so fucking tough after all, are you? Well, you’d better suck it up if you wanna be a—”
“Rose?” I knock on the door, and the volley of vitriol stops immediately. “Are you all right in there?”
There’s a long pause. “Yeah …?”
“You sure?”
“No …?”
“Can I come in?”
Another pause. I hear water lapping at the edges of the tub and then the rustling of fabric. “Okay …”
When I open the door, Rose is sitting on the edge of the tub in a robe, her crutches discarded on the floor, her brace resting on the counter next to the sink. Water glistens on her chest and her good leg, but her injured one is dry except for the edges of the wound dressing where its pulled back at one corner.
“What’s going on?” I ask as I set my glass and the bottle down next to her brace. Rose’s cheeks flush with a crimson glow and she looks toward the floor. My heart cracks a little when she meets my gaze but only briefly, like she can’t bear to hold it.
“You told me to take the bandage off today,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. Even when she’s exhausted, her words normally have a sharp edge or a teasing warmth. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”
“That’s okay. I can help. That’s why you’re here. Remember?” She gives me an encouraging smile, and for a moment, I forget what I nearly did tonight. I crouch in front of her, patting my knee for her to rest her ankle on. She does, gingerly, and I rub my hands together to warm them, an action that causes a flicker of a crease between her brows as she watches. “Does it hurt?”
Rose shrugs and looks away, a hard swallow shifting in the column of her throat. “A bit.”
“It’s okay if this stuff bothers you.”
“It doesn’t,” she says firmly, though it’s not entirely convincing and she knows it. With a resigned sigh, she says, “The bone sticking out was just a bit … much. It’s hard to forget.”
“That’s understandable.” I tug a little at the edge of the adhesive tape and she hisses as it pulls the hairs that have grown beneath it.
“The fur is really adding to the experience for me.”
I snort. “What?”
“Look.” She plunks her other foot on my knee to compare the difference between her freshly shaven skin still glowing from the hot water and the leg she hasn’t touched, the fine dark hairs glinting in the dim light. She points to her swollen leg, the marks of the brace still imprinted on her flesh. “Fur.”
I nearly say something stupid, likeI like carpet, orFur is hot, or probably fifty other dumbass options that suddenly cancel out anything professional or, God forbid, clever. I clear my throat and try to focus on the bandage, lifting one edge enough to check that the stitches haven’t stuck to the surface of the gauze.
“Fur is human.”
“Fur hurts like a bitch when it gets stuck in tape.”
“Just wait until you get the cast.”
“It’ll hurt?”
“No. But once we take it off, you might be able to braid it.”
“Doc,” she says through a giggle as she prods me with her toes. “You’re supposed to be helping.”
“Iamhelping. I’m distracting you so I can dothis,” I declare as I tear off the bandage.
“Motherfucker!” she shrieks. She grips my wrist and laughs, her eyes wide. I know I’m grinning at her like a fucking fool, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure you have no credentials at all, and you won your stethoscope at the Duck Pond game.”
