Next Friday Nolan came prepared. The scene with Samuel had scared him. All week he'd steeled his will not to go near the girl. Angel, as he thought of her, was on the left side of the room. He'd clean in a circle, keeping as far away from her bed as possible, and clean her area last. Then he'd get the hell out.
He scrubbed in quick circles, the mop squeaking across the floor with a sound like old brakes. Nolan liked noise. It was better than beeping monitors and hissing oxygen tanks. The room’s awful symphony often swelled until Nolan felt he might scream just to hear something other than the slow march of decay.
But when the girl murmured, it set his heart pounding. As if he'd been both fearing it and anticipating it all day.
Don't go to her, he thought. You promised yourself. You promised Samuel.
“Heeee,” her voice said. Even from this distance he could see the pink swell of her lips as they circled around the word. “Hel…” Her airy voice trailed off. Her golden hair rippled as she tossed slightly on the pillow.
Was she saying hell? As in, get me out of this hell? If she was, it meant she was aware…
No, he was jumping to conclusions. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that crouched around him. Forget cleaning the floor. He needed to get out before he did something stupid.
“Heeelllppp,” she whispered, her head shifting again. One hand rose off the bed and then lowered.
His heart throbbed into his ears until his head was a kettle drum. He took a trembling step toward her. Then another. His legs were foam, his chest a vise. The room seemed to tilt. Soon he was standing over her bed, looking down. Her golden hair was the same color and texture of the silken scarves the traders sold for more barter slips than he made in a month. Her pale skin still had blooms of roses in her cheeks, though they were fading. Was something wrong with her? The veins on her wrist were blue vines creeping up her skin. Her cheeks were hollowing. What was happening to her? His fingertips floated toward her cheek. What would her skin feel like? Buttermilk? Rose petals?
“I wouldn't,” said a voice behind him.
He whirled around. Dr. Vandewater stood, fists on hips, in the doorway. And her look—in a word—unamused. As she stepped towards him, her high heels clicked on the tile.
“I…I,” he stammered, stumbling back.
“I saw you. No need for explanation.” She stopped, clasped her hands together, and fixed him with a narrow frown. Her perfect bun shone in the dim overhead lights. “You're not the first to become” —she paused and looked up at him— “enamored.”
Enamored. It means caught up, captivated by. Nolan collected the word, even in his terror. Somehow the act of filing the word away calmed him. A lie formed easily enough on his tongue. “I was removing a spider from her face. I know I’m not required to clean the… bodies,” (he prided himself on the word choice— bodies, not girls), “but it was spinning a web.” He swallowed, hoping.
Her eyes narrowed. When she crossed her arms over her tight fitting blouse, Nolan tried not to look at her chest. “What's your name again, boy?”
“Nolan,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Nolan Stein.”
She nodded, her eyes still calculating. “The one with the father who walked him to the interview.”
“Yes.” He hated that his dah had to be brought into this. His dah who'd begun to cough blood into his rags. This morning when he'd left, his father had barely raised a hand in parting. He was so weak. Nolan planned to use every barter slip he got tonight and beg the apothe for medicine.
She pursed her lips. “Do you know, Nolan, what happens to boys who breach protocol?”
He clenched his hands together at his sides to keep them from trembling. “Removal from the hospital and removal from the city.”
She tilted her head slightly as if to agree, but then she stopped. “Not just for the offender,” she said, intoning every word. “For the families as well.” She took a step closer, her pale blue eyes zeroing in. “For your father, Nolan. Imagine your delicate father out on the road.”
“I won't breach protocol, ma'am. You can count on me.” His voice trembled, though he tried every trick he could to stop it.
“That,” she said, turning to stride out of the room, “is still up for debate.”