Bad Glass

I continued up to the privacy of my room, shutting the door behind me.

I sat down on the futon mattress and dropped my head into my hands. I felt awful. I’d woken up in a rush of adrenaline—Mac pulling me out of Taylor’s bed—and I’d spent the whole morning so far jumping from one long adrenaline spike to another. Now that that ride was over, however, and the chemical rush was gone, a massive wave of sickness came flooding in, and suddenly I felt nauseated, hungover. My head was throbbing. My injured hand was on fire.

And Taylor wasn’t there for me, I remembered. The thought popped into my head unbidden, washed ashore on that wave of misery. She ran away in the middle of the night. She ran away … from me.

I gritted my teeth and lashed out, kicking the back of the folding chair. It skidded into the sewing table on the other side of the room and collapsed in a loud clatter, falling flat like a deflated lung.

I seethed for a full minute, gritting my teeth and clenching my hands. Then I got up and righted the chair.

After I calmed down, I settled into the futon and got a couple of hours of sleep. It was a restless sleep, tainted by pain and nausea. I don’t remember my dreams, but I’m sure they were bad. Dark tunnels and singing voices. Expressive eyes peering out from plaster and wood. And Taylor, always Taylor, retreating from my touch.

The light was still bright when I woke up, shining a midafternoon orange against my closed blinds. My head still ached, and my wounded hand felt hot and wet.

I slowly unwrapped my bandages, wincing at the change in pressure against my flesh. The smell hit me even before I was done: a gamy vinegar tang that turned my stomach. I opened the blinds and raised my hand into the light. The whole hand was swollen. There were red tendrils snaking up my forearm, fleeing the gray withered holes—crucifixion holes—one in my palm and two in the back of my hand.

My hand was infected. Badly infected—mutant wolf—infected. And I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

I needed antibiotics.

There were only two places I could think to go for help: the military, which would almost certainly get me kicked out of the city, if not arrested, or Mama Cass. And really, that wasn’t much of a choice. Still, I found myself conflicted. Taylor had made her dislike for Mama Cass perfectly clear.

But she can’t be worse than the alternative, I told myself: military scrutiny, expulsion, imprisonment. Besides, if Weasel’s any indication, Taylor’s not exactly the best judge of character.

I left my hand unwrapped, careful with the sensitive flesh as I shrugged into my jacket and tucked it away in my pocket. Then I slung my backpack over my shoulder and fled the room, quickly making my way down the stairs and out the front door.

Sabine called after me from the kitchen: “Dean! Where are you going?” There was surprise and concern in her voice, but it was cut short as I slammed the door shut behind me.

It was about four o’clock when I reached the restaurant, and the sun was almost gone. There were a half dozen people crowded around the entrance and another twenty inside, seated at the mismatched tables. I didn’t recognize any of the customers, but some of them must have recognized me … and remembered my camera. As soon as I entered, a ripple of whispers spread throughout the crowd, and a large number turned my way, fixing me with wary, suspicious eyes. One woman got up from her seat and started edging back toward a side entrance. Her movements—nervous, with shifty-short glances back and forth—made her look like a tiny bird ready to take flight. I nodded in her direction, and that set her off. She flashed me a startled grimace and ducked out through the door.

I stopped a waiter carrying a pair of ham sandwiches. He was bearded and burly, and his hair was tied back in a greasy ponytail. There was dirt smeared across his forehead, and a splatter of mustard dotted his flannel shirt. The impression as a whole was rather unsanitary. As soon as I got his attention, I asked after Mama Cass.

“What do you want her for?” he asked, gruff and impatient. His eyes roamed about the room as we talked, checking on each table in turn.

“Just tell her there’s something I need.”

The waiter let out a sly, knowing smile. Apparently, this was a familiar conversation. “Yeah, yeah. I got it, I know … there’s always stuff we need.” He delivered his sandwiches, then disappeared into the back room.

Mama Cass stepped through the door a couple of minutes later. She glanced around the room, spotted me, and summoned me back with a wave of her hand.