“Bob Dylan as medicine,” I murmur. Yeah. I get it. Well, not anymore, but I used to. And I can’t deny the fact that his voice hauled me back from the brink.
He drops his hand away and looks at me sharply, his eyes bright, interested. “You know Dylan?”
I nod once, uneasy . . . unwilling to continue discussing music with him. How can I without explaining how music is something I’ve lost? Something I can’t hear inside myself anymore?
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone around my age who’s ever even heard of him.” He looks me up and down, and I turn my face away, scanning the room. My gaze lands on the door. “Are you into music then?”
“Why am I locked in here?” I ask, changing the subject.
He takes his time answering, and it’s like I can see the thoughts turning over behind his amber-bright eyes. “You shouldn’t leave this room. You shouldn’t even be out of bed yet—”
“Dr. Phelps said I needed to get on my feet today,” I quickly counter.
“So you were going to take a stroll out of the infirmary in nothing but that?” He flicks a finger up and down.
The heat returns to my face in full force. I tug at the hem of my flimsy gown. It feels like paper between my fingers. “You didn’t answer me. Why am I locked in here? Am I a prisoner?”
He considers the word, angling his head to the side and tossing all that dark hair off his forehead. A thick, rebellious chunk of it falls forward again. “More like a guest.”
I tear my gaze off his hair. “A guest you lock in?”
“This is a compound full of carriers. Some of us have been here a while now and are known to each other. Trusted. Some not.”
“Some meaning me?”
“At any given time we have visiting carriers. Even though we’re trying to help and get them relocated to refuges in Mexico, they’re strangers to us. We need to take precautions. It’s just smart.”
“And you keep them all locked in? These visiting carriers?” Also known as me.
“They’re always watched.” Not exactly a direct answer.
“But not locked in? That honor is specific to me?”
He sighs. “You did try to brain me.”
“Of course. And you told them that. No wonder they’re treating me like a prisoner. I heard that guy. Marcus. He doesn’t want me here.”
“Let me deal with Marcus. Trust me.”
Trust. It’s the wrong word to use. Everything inside me seizes up and tightens. The pain in my shoulder actually throbs deeper. Inhaling through my nose, I hug myself, feeling suddenly cold. I take another step back, craving distance.
He watches me, those eyes glinting like fire beneath the slash of his dark brows. He looks at me like I’m some sort of puzzle he’s trying to figure out.
“I’m sorry I attacked you, but I woke with a bullet wound. In a strange place with a stranger. Who happened to be a carrier.”
“I know that. I don’t hold that against you. You were out of it. Which is why I brought you here at all.”
As opposed to leaving me out there to die.
I do not mistake his meaning. When he found me, he viewed me as a wounded bird. Broken. He did not blame me for pecking at his hand. Then. From the way his jaw locks, I can see he won’t forgive me again if I try something like that a second time.
I point to the door. “I want it unlocked.” He simply stares at me. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t talk. Air shudders past my lips. I nod. “I get it. I’m a carrier.” Just like when I was stuck in the Cage. Forced in there because of what I was. Not who. No one cared about that.
“Yeah. You are. Just like we all are in here.”
Studying the planes of his face, I can appreciate his honesty. Nodding, I murmur, “And at the end of the day, no carrier can be trusted.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I snort.
“I don’t know you yet,” he adds.
Yet. That word hangs between us. It tempts me. The thought that I might find a friend in him is something I hadn’t considered. The only friends I have are Sean, Gil, and Sabine. That’s why I have to find them.
Turning, I walk back to the gurney. “I won’t be here long enough for you to get to know me.” My legs tremble as I pull myself back onto the thin mattress. Mostly from exertion. Mostly. “I asked Dr. Phelps to get me whoever is in charge.” I start arranging the blanket around my legs. “I guess he didn’t convey that message. Or your boss doesn’t care. Maybe you can let—”
“He did.”
I look up. “He did?” He lifts a dark eyebrow, the motion faintly smug. “You?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“But you’re so . . .” Not who I want to deal with. A guy who looks like you and sings Bob Dylan. Who cares whether I live or die. “Young.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“And you run the show here?” I glance around the infirmary, considering all the work and effort that must have gone into creating an underground facility. He couldn’t have been solely responsible for that.
“My father built the compound three years ago. He saw this coming. When they fired him from the army because he tested positive for HTS.”
He utters this so evenly, his voice devoid of all emotion, but it’s there. In the twitch beside his eye. He’s affected.
I moisten my lips. “Where is he—”