Jay Posey - Three

He trailed off, unsure of Wren’s state, suddenly concerned of waking memories that might have been best unmentioned. But while Wren dropped his gaze back to his own hands, he answered readily.

“The Weir ran away.”

“What do you mean, ‘ran away’? They didn’t follow us?”

“Oh, no they found us, but they ran away.”

“Was there a fight?”

“No,” Wren shrugged, but answered matter-of-factly, as if it was no big deal. “I think the angels scared them.”

“Who are the angels, Wren?”

“Lil. And Mister Carter. And Mister Chapel, I guess. They’re not really angels, I don’t think. But they can look like them. When they want to.”

Three’s mind swirled, still off-balance from the damage he’d suffered, the time he’d been under. He drank more deeply. Steadied himself. Ravenously hungry, but daunted by the idea of trying to stand. Real tomatoes. That would be something.

Angels. Something else entirely.

Three jerked awake, not realizing he’d nodded off. The bowl sat in his lap, empty now of its water. Wren hadn’t moved, just sat motionless, hugging his knees and staring at the wall, sea-green eyes dull and unfocused, somewhere far away. Three stretched his legs out in front of him. The motion drew Wren’s attention back to reality.

“Think I dozed off,” Three said. Wren nodded. “You hungry?”

Wren nodded again. Three looked again at the tube inserted in his chest, and wondered what would happen if he stood. He’d never had a collapsed lung before, let alone two. His list of injury firsts was growing ever shorter. “Well. Why don’t we see what we can find, huh?”

Three reached out tentatively and took hold of the jar of water that held the other end of his chest-tube, moved it gingerly as if just touching it might somehow reignite the pain. He lifted it and brought it closer. Another bubble had just begun to form. Like a bead of glass. It made sense. Pressure from his chest cavity forced air through the tube, relieving the strain on his lungs and enabling them to re-inflate. The water jar acted as a cheap one-way valve, letting pressure out, but not allowing any back in. Clever. Three couldn’t help but wonder if he ever would’ve thought of that on his own.

The jar was interesting, but it was mostly an excuse to avoid the hard work of standing. Three thought about calling for the woman again, or sending Wren to fetch someone, but quickly dismissed it. As long as he was still conscious, he would ignore the creeping fear of vulnerability. Fake it. People can’t tell the difference anyway.

“Right,” he said aloud, and stirred forward, tucking his legs beneath him. Wren clambered to his feet and stood by as Three began the process of working his way up. It was nearly a full minute before he could be considered standing, and even then he had to lean against the wall to steady himself. He couldn’t remember a time when he had been this weak.

“Are you OK?” Wren asked quietly. He formed it as a question, but the tone made it a statement: you’re not OK.

“Sure, kiddo. Just a little woozy.” Fake it. Whether proving it to the boy or to himself, Three forced himself off the wall then, and refused to let his body collapse. It was more of a fight than he would admit. One step. Then another. Hold. Focus. Don’t dare fall. More like walking a tightrope than it had any right to be. Three was so focused on getting one foot in front of the other, he didn’t see it coming through the door.

Something hard jabbed into his elbow, the impact just enough to force his arm into the tube leading into his chest. There was a lightning stab of pain between his ribs, and a sudden roll of fire down the front of his leg. Something shattered in the distance, though Three knew not as distant as it sounded. It went dark, and he inhaled sharply, reflexively, caught the doorjamb to keep from collapsing. It was several moments before he realized his eyes were squeezed shut. He slid them open slowly, scanned for the source of this new pain.

The woman. The woman was back, holding a small tray, with a bowl partially filled with some sort of thin broth. It was steaming. Three guessed the bowl had been much fuller moments before. That would explain the burning leg. The woman stood in the hall, eyes wide, mouth open, trapped somewhere between stunned and mortified.

“You’re back,” he said, because it was the first thing that came to mind.

“What’re you doing?” she asked almost breathlessly.

“Hurtin’.”

“I mean, you shouldn’t be up… you shouldn’t be able to be up.”

For some reason, watching the dawning of thoughts and emotions play across the woman’s face struck Three as amusing. He felt his mouth curling in a subdued smile. She was only just now realizing what had happened. And suddenly she was a flurry of activity, but obviously uncertain of what needed to be done.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright, ma’am,” he answered. It was too warm. “Not much for soup anyway.” Getting warmer.

“Oh no…”

Three followed her gaze, scanned the floor. The end of his chest-tube lay in a puddle amongst shards of glass. At some point, his jar of water had slipped from his hand. The shattering noise. Why was it so hot?

The woman no longer had the tray, she was standing, hands up towards him. Her mouth was open, moving. Probably saying something. Three felt his lips forming a curse as he realized all the work of standing and walking to the door was about to be for nothing.

When he woke the next time, there was a man sitting on the floor near the lantern, across the small room. Vaguely familiar. From before. He’d been the first to tell Three that Wren was safe. He didn’t seem to notice that Three was awake, so Three remained still. Let his eyes rove, pick up the details. His focus was sharper now. Same room. They hadn’t moved him. At least, not far. And the tube was gone from his chest, replaced now by some gauzy bandaging with a faint pink spot in the center. Something about the way it wound around him spoke of something else familiar; clean, efficient. A craftsman’s work. The same hands that had constructed this room.

Three’s eyes went back to the man in the middle of the room. He had something laid across his lap and was intently working on it, though the backlighting made it impossible to see what he was doing. His movements were small, exact. An etcher’s hand. Or a surgeon’s.

“You a doctor or a carpenter?”

The man didn’t stir, but smiled slightly, as if he’d been expecting Three’s comment. “A little of both, I suppose.” He looked up at Three then. “But not as much of either as I’d wish.” Bright-eyed, kind. Deeply intelligent. There was a weight to the man’s stillness, like a great stone in a deep pool. “I am called Chapel.”

His voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it had warm, rounded edges that reassured, like a grandfather’s.

“That your name, or just what you’re called?”

Chapel’s smile widened. “Do you only ask questions, or do you answer them as well?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re recovering. How’s your breathing?”

Three tested it, drew a long, slow inhale. There was internal pressure, an automatic hesitance to deep breathing, but the only pain he felt was in the stretching of the flesh where his tube had been. “Fair. Your work?”

Chapel nodded and then shrugged. “Not all of course. You’ve required many caretakers since you arrived. But the blame for the hole in your chest is mine alone.”

“I appreciate it.”

Chapel inclined his head in a slight bow, a precise movement that graciously acknowledged Three’s gratitude without accepting any credit. Three hadn’t even begun to process how much he owed these people, this man in particular, but somehow in that one moment, it was as if all expectation of repayment dissolved.