Page 65 of Vital Signs
I'd forgotten how good it could feel. How completely the chemicals erased not just physical agony but the emotional wreckage too. The needle offered absolution that nothing else could match.
Something was different, though.
The warmth spread faster than usual, heavier somehow. My tongue grew thick in my mouth, thoughts drifting at the edges.Breathing slowed to a gentle rhythm, each breath deeper but somehow less satisfying than the last.
Odd. Not like normal. But nothing about the past two days had been normal.
My limbs weighed too much to move, but that was fine. Moving hurt anyway. Better to stay still, to float in this moment where nothing hurt anymore. The darkness wasn't scary. Just peaceful. Quiet.
If I closed my eyes now, maybe the pain wouldn't come back. Maybe this time, I wouldn't have to wake up to the agony waiting on the other side. The thought arrived without panic, just a simple observation.
"M'sorry," I mumbled, the words barely making it past my tongue. "Didn't mean to..."
Who was I talking to? Misha? My parents? The patients I couldn't save? It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except the absence of pain.
My last coherent thought wasn't about the drugs or mistakes or failures. It was about Misha and the look on his face as he'd walked away.
As I faded completely, the only comfort was knowing I wouldn't feel anything when he didn't come back.
The handcuffs bit intomy wrists as I shifted in the chair. A clock ticked somewhere behind me.
Hunter consumed my thoughts. He was alone in that van, thinking I'd abandoned him.
A detective entered with coffee and a manila folder.
"Michael Vasiliev." He mangled the pronunciation, dropping a thick file on the table. "Breaking and entering, theft of confidential medical records, assaulting a police officer." He sipped his coffee. "You've been busy."
I stared at a point just past his left ear. "I want a lawyer."
"Sure, sure. We'll get to that." He flipped open the folder. "Right now, I want to know who helped you."
My throat closed. If I gave up Hunter, they'd go after him too. A homeless addict would make the perfect scapegoat: easy to blame, easy to convict, impossible to defend.
"I said lawyer."
"Give us a name, and things get easier for you."
"Lawyer," I repeated.
He sighed, leaning back. "You're looking at serious time. Federal charges. HIPAA violations carry hefty penalties."
"Get me a goddamn lawyer."
The detective pulled out photos, spreading them across the table. Me and Hunter at Wright's office, grainy security stills. "Dr. Wright's been very cooperative. Very concerned." He tapped one of the images. "He says you've been harassing him. That your friend has mental health issues, a history of violence."
My stomach turned. Wright was spinning this, turning us from investigators into stalkers.
"He's worried about Mr. Song. Suggested we do a welfare check." The detective's smile didn't reach his eyes. "For his own safety."
They wanted to find Hunter. Arrest him. Use his addiction to destroy our credibility, making everything we'd discovered look like the delusions of unstable criminals.
"Lawyer," I said, voice flat.
The door opened again, and a different officer entered: younger, clean-shaven, his badge reading Hatfield. "Still not talking?"
I stared at the coffee cup. The liquid had stopped steaming. "I want a lawyer."
"Look, we know Dr. Wright runs clinical trials. We know someone's been threatening him." He sat across from me. "Give us something, and maybe we can work something out. Otherwise, you're looking at years, not months."
