Page 15 of Spread Me
“No,” Domino and Mads say in unison.
Nkrumah leans across Kinsey to glare at Mads. “What the fuck,” she hisses.
“You can’t go in and neither can Kinsey,” Mads replies levelly. “Neither of you knows how to take a tissue sample—”
“We do so,” Kinsey says, momentarily more indignant than she is afraid.
“—from a living person,”Mads finishes. “Domino’s not a specimen you found out in the field. They’re alive. They can still feel pain.”
Saskia scoffs. “If they could still feel pain, we would have heard them screaming when they grew eyes on their stomach.”
Mads frowns. “We can’t know what that felt like. Best practice in a moment like this one is to assume—you know what? I don’t have to explain this to you. I’m the doctor here.”
Inside the exam room, Domino pushes themself to their feet. They stretch, yawn, scratch the back of their neck. Sand falls from their shoulders as they move. Kinsey can’t tell where it came from. They move toward the exam table, leaving a trail of grit behind them. They look down at the specimen, which is still sprawled out on top of the tarp on the floor.
“Not my best work,” they mutter. Then they stoop and lift the specimen—the specimen it took three people to lift just a few days before. In their arms now, it looks like it weighs nothing at all. They heft it easily over one shoulder, then drop it onto the exam table.
A gust of wind shakes the wall of the corridor behind the team. Sand whips against the building, making a sound like a thousand fingernails tapping impatiently. Everyone turns to look except Kinsey, who can’t take her eyes offDomino. They glance up, see her staring. Their mouth twitches like they’re holding back a smile.
“I’ll go,” Kinsey hears herself say.
Domino’s mouth barely moves, but she can hear them anyway. “Attagirl.”
She adjusts the wireless headphone in her ear, even though it doesn’t need adjusting. The feel of the smooth plastic under the pad of her finger reminds her that she’s not alone. She pulls a handful of gloves off the wall, double-layers just like always. Tightens the nose bridge on her facemask.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Domino murmurs. “You don’t need gloves. Not with me.”
Kinsey clears her throat, turns her back on them, double-checks that the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt is on. “It’s procedure.”
“Please. You don’t know what procedure is. You’ve never done anything like this before, have you, Kinsey?”
There’s a beep in one headphone. She presses her finger to it again, harder this time. A soft click, and then Mads is in her ear.
“You okay?”
When she doesn’t reply, they clear their throat. She glances over to see Mads watching her through the window, their face tight with concern, the walkie-talkie in their hand just out of sight below the windowsill. “Right. Let’s take some samples.”
She’s already got most of what she needs. But Domino is right: she’s never used these tools on a living creature before. It was strange, removing them from her field kit tobring into this room. It’s stranger still to think that she’ll be using them on a member of her own team.
“Kinsey, will you look at me?” Domino’s voice is terribly gentle. “It sounds like there’s another storm coming. Is that right?”
“Seems like it.”
“Hard to get details when your Weatherman interpreter’s locked in the nurse’s office. Best to stay inside.” Domino’s mouth twitches, like they’re about to kiss the air.
Kinsey swallows around the painful lump that’s forming in her throat. That’s the second time Domino has suggested that everyone should stay inside. “Give me a second.”
Mads comes to life in her ear. “For what?”
Kinsey gives her head a minute shake. “How should I start?”
After a moment’s silence, Mads answers. “Ask Domino to take the shirt off again.”
“Shirt off,” she says, turning her back on them. She hears the sound of Domino’s shirt shushing across their skin, then hitting the floor. After a second, she hears a zipper too. “You can keep the pants on,” she says.
“Why? Don’t you need to inspect all of me?” There’s a playful tilt in Domino’s voice. “Don’t be scared to look, Kinsey. I promise not to make eyes at you again.”
Kinsey isn’t an angry person as a rule. She tries not to get angry now. “No jokes,” she says. “Please. I need to concentrate.” Then, before she can hesitate a second longer, she picks up a sterile large-gauge needle and syringe. She turns and forces herself to look Domino square in the face, holding the needle aloft like the weapon it might need to be.
