“I can understand that.” Dorran put the brush aside and handed Clare a hair tie. As she pulled her hair into a ponytail, Dorran opened the first aid kit on the table. He cut off the wet bandages marking her body, discarded them in the bin, and began redressing the ones that needed it.
The cuts on her stomach and thigh, less than four weeks old, had almost completely healed. Red lines marked where the skin had once been torn, but even they were fading. The bite on her forearm, still recent, was knitting together.
“I saw you were healing quickly, but I did not suspect it was tied to the stillness,” Dorran murmured. “No sign of infection. No delays to progress, even after extensive blood loss and less-than-optimal nutrition. No lingering effects from the cyanide. I am not a fool enough to be grateful for the stillness, but at least this is one result in our favour.”
A side effect of an infection I can’t escape. Clare’s fingers twitched. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap.
Dorran lowered his brows, his eyes sad. “I am sorry, my darling.”
“It’s—it’s fine.” Clare hoped, if she repeated it often enough, she might actually believe it. “We’re safe, and we’re still together, and that’s the most important thing, right?”
He bent to kiss the top of her head, his fingers lingering over the tape holding a bandage in place.
Clare brushed her teeth while Dorran showered. When he emerged two minutes later, he was shivering almost as badly as she had, the dressing gown tied tightly around himself. He patched his own scrapes and bandages quickly, closed the kit, then held out a hand. Clare took it as they returned to the office area.
She used her badge to open the door. The space felt vacant; Peter was still at his desk, head down, fully absorbed into his formula, but he looked painfully small compared to the breadth of the room. The rapid key tapping blended with the drum of falling rain. Clare hesitated as the door swung closed behind them, but Peter didn’t even seem aware that they were there. It felt wrong to interrupt him.
They resumed their spots on the couch and picked through the vending machine food. The apples went first; Clare and Dorran were both starved for fresh food. They split a packet of salty peanuts. Clare’s stomach had finally quietened enough that she could eat, but she tried to moderate what she had. The foods were all high in salt and sugar. She pitied Peter for having to live off it for a month.
Clare tried to rest, leaning against the chair’s corner and stretching her feet in front of the heater. It was like trying to take a nap with a beehive directly above her head. Her mind whirred, frantic and confused, and the more she tried to ignore it, the worse it became. She needed something to do.
Peter had told them to make themselves at home, but she didn’t like the idea of encroaching on any of the other desks. They held too many memories from their past owners. Just looking through the papers and touching the discarded jackets and trinkets would build up an idea of the man or woman who had marked that area as their own. Clare didn’t want to let that into her head. It would hurt too much.
The bookcase behind them held novels and games. Clare loved reading, but she didn’t think she could fall into any of the books that night. The fantasy escape they offered felt hollow. She leaned close to Dorran and whispered, “Bed?”
He nodded, smiling, and Clare felt some relief. It couldn’t have been any later than eight, but she thought sleep might at least soften the anxiety. Morning would bring a clean slate and, she hoped, a clearer mind.
Clare rose and approached Peter. He hunched forward, his face intensely focussed on the screen. Every few seconds, he tapped a key, toggling different cells and entering new numbers. Clare wondered if he had always been that intense. The way he stared, unblinking, made her think it was a lifelong habit.
An open binder stood on the desk’s edge. The name on it was familiar: Dr Peter Wiesner. He’d left his research notes for the bionic eye out on the desk. She guessed it really was difficult to let go of the past. The eye must have been his passion for more than a year. She knew it would have been a challenge to pick up a different scientist’s work at a moment’s notice.
Clare rubbed the back of her neck, uncomfortable with interrupting him when he was so involved with the spreadsheet, but he seemed oblivious to her. She waited until the silence was unbearable then cleared her throat. “Peter?”
“Oh, hey, how’s it going?” He leaned back, and immediately the grin brightened his face.
“Sorry, I hope I didn’t disturb you—”
“Nah, it’s fine. I could do with some distraction from this mess. It’s enough to fry my brain.”
Clare chuckled. She tilted her head towards Dorran, who stood beside the chairs, patient but watchful as always. “We were thinking we might head to bed, unless you needed help with anything?”
“That sounds like a plan. I could probably do with some sleep too.” Peter stretched as he stood. “I’ll show you the bunks. Open the door for me, would you? I need to put out the light.”
Clare pushed on the door to the hallway and waited. Peter tapped some keys on the computer. Every bulb went out—not just in the work room, but in the hallway, as well. The only light came from the emergency exit sign above the stairs. Clare flinched as the red glow doused the space in a sickening ambience.
“Sorry, I
