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Awareness comes back to Mel slowly.
Voices, coalescing over each other. Air moving painfully over her skin. Something beeping behind her. A clamp on her finger. Something on her face; smelling of plastic. There’s mist coming through it. Mel tries to pull it off, but she’s so weak she just hits herself in the face. “Hey, keep that on,” comes a disembodied voice from above her head. Must be one of the doctors. Mel’s vision is extremely blurred, and she can’t see anything. She hates this mask—its plasticky scent is overwhelming, and it scrapes against the tender skin on her face.
“No,” she moans, but her throat is so burnt the word is nothing more than a whisper. Mel’s hand comes up to clumsily knock it off, but someone gently pulls her arm away. Every breath sends stabbing pains through her chest. The plastic smell makes her feel physically sick. The pain and the blindness and the shortness of breath makes it feel like she’s trapped inside herself. She’s shivery and hurting and can’t think straight for the panic.
A hand takes hers. Mel doesn’t know whose it is, but she grips it with all her strength anyway. It’s grounding to have someone here, even if their identity is unknown. Don’t leave me, she pleads inside her head. Don’t leave me alone.
“That’s my hand you’re holding, by the way. I know you can’t see me—it’s Pelton you’re talking to.” Mel feels a rush of relief: she knows Pelton, she trusts her. “Your corneas have been cold-burned,” Pelton says. “Big Alice gave us medication to help with it, but you’ll be blind for a few days.” Mel can hear the beeping of machines, and the hissing of what must be the nebuliser. “Heart rate rising,” an unknown voice says. It almost sounds like that girl Zarah—but Mel must be hearing things. There’s no way Zarah’s in the medical room right now. Mel tries to make any kind of noise, but she can’t. Her heart is pounding and it’s difficult to breathe.
“We should sedate her for a little while,” Pelton says. “Get the drugs. Not too much.”
Sedation? Mel struggles with renewed vigour; she doesn’t want to be drugged, she doesn’t want to sleep. This time she succeeds in letting out a strangled whine, though it hurts like hell. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Pelton says, “We’re not gonna hurt you.”
I don’t wanna be sedated, Mel thinks, but she can’t form the words. Don’t send me to the dark!
There’s the sound of footsteps approaching. “Here we go,” Pelton says. Assumedly maybe-Zarah has brought the drugs. Mel tries to move her arm away. “Hey, it’s okay,” the doctor says, gently bringing her arm back. “It’s not gonna put you to sleep. It’s just enough to relax you.”
Mel will have to take Pelton’s word for it. She’s feeling more nauseous with each passing second. A needle inserts into her IV, then a cold sensation spreads up her arm. “That was the sedative just now,” Pelton says. “You should be feeling it in a few seconds.”
The drugs hit quickly. Mel’s panic quietens, and her entire body feels heavy. Her heart slows down. So tired.
“You’re safe now,” Pelton says faintly. “Wilford’s gone. He won’t hurt you again.”
Wilford’s gone? Mel thinks sluggishly, but that train of thought disappears as the drugs take hold.
“She’s going to sleep,” comes the voice that sounds like Zarah.
The last thing Mel hears before she goes out is Pelton saying, “Good. She’ll need it.”
When Mel wakes up—abruptly, as if she’s been dunked in cold water—someone is spreading something cold and sticky across her stomach. Mel shies away, and a hand comes out to hold her still. “Don’t move,” comes Pelton’s voice. “I’m trying to apply this synthetic skin. It’ll take a while. This frostbite really did a number on you.” Mel’s chest tightens in anxiety, but at least the mask seems to be gone; replaced with a nasal tube. The clamp on her finger is gone. It’s also a little easier to breathe, and she’s getting used to the blindness.
“I assume you still can’t see,” Pelton continues absent-mindedly. “To give you an update, you’re still in medical, but we moved you to recovery while you were asleep. You’re on a nebuliser break for the next hour or so—when I’m done with this, you’ll get it back.”
Mel can’t help herself; she starts shaking uncontrollably. She hates the mask, with its awful plasticky smell and how it chafes the skin around her mouth. She doesn’t want to be trapped with it again.
“I assume you don’t like the sound of that idea,” Pelton says. “You shake like crazy whenever I mention it.” Mel nods; she doesn’t even know if the doctor can see it, but Pelton is right, in any case. “I’m sorry,” the doctor says gently, slathering synthetic skin on Mel’s chest. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but you need that machine. Your lungs have been heavily damaged by the cold.”
Mel doesn’t care about any of that! Her relative calm has been ruined, and now she’s trembling and panicky again. “Try not to worry about it,” Pelton says. “It won’t be for the next hour at least.” Whatever the doctor’s been using to apply the synthetic skin recedes. “Stay still for now,” she says. “The skin has to dry. I’m gonna leave you alone for a minute to put this back.” Pelton walks off; Mel hears her putting things away on the far side of the room. The synthetic skin slowly thickens and hardens. Mel breathes in and out. She didn’t know how much she missed the extra space at the bottom of her lungs. At least she doesn’t feel permanently out of breath anymore. Mel tries to speak, but all that comes out is a croak. That’ll have to wait. Someone comes closer. “It’s me again,” says Pelton. “I have these eye drops here. It’s the medication Big Alice gave us. Just keep your eyes open. It might sting a bit.” She works quickly; she’s done both eyes before Mel can react. It does sting, but not too badly. “There you go,” the doctor says. “That’s sorted for another day.” There’s a pause, then she says, “Your friends have been asking about you. I told them how injured you were.”
Alex. Ben. Javi. I want to see them, I need to see them.
“Your daughter’s here…she’s been in the hallway out there ever since you came back. Considering how sick you are, I wouldn’t let anyone in to see you, but I’ll make an exception here. I’ll check your vitals, and then I’ll let her in. Is that okay? Blink twice for yes, once for no.”
Mel blinks twice. Of course she does. “Why’d I even ask, huh?” Pelton says drily. “I’ll be just a second with these vitals.” Mel feels a clamp on her finger, then the beeping of the heart monitor. There’s the scratching of Pelton writing something down, then the clamp is removed.
“Alright, time to bring in your daughter. I’ll be right back.” Mel hears the doctor’s footsteps moving away, then the creak of the door opening. “Wash your hands,” Mel hears Pelton saying to Alex. “And only five minutes. I’ll be right outside. Get me if something happens.”
Mel hears Alex coming closer—she’d know that light-footed tread anywhere. There’s a squeak as she sits down on the nearby stool, then Mel feels Alex’s hand in hers. “Mom?” comes her voice, breaking. “Mom, are you awake?”
Alex! Mel tries to move, anything to let her daughter know that she is awake, she knows Alex is here.
“You’re hurt really bad,” Alex says in a tiny voice, eliciting a rush of guilt in Mel. “We were so scared when they dragged you aboard.”
Mel doesn’t remember any of that; she knows logically that it happened, but between the research station and when she woke up in the medical car is a big blank space. Nothingness. Maybe when she recovers her memories will come back.
“I guess you want to know about Ben and Javi,” Alex continues, her voice a little steadier. “Ben’s okay. He’s driving the train. Javi, he…”
What happened to him? What happened to Javi?
“Wilford, he…he set Jupiter on him. He’s fine, but he’s recovering in Big Alice. He was hurt pretty bad.” Mel whines in spite of herself. “Mom, it’s okay. Javi’s fine. He’s still alive. He’ll be off Big Alice soon. Wilford’s dead, by the way. When the others heard he left you behind, he...he got shot. It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you once you’re better.”
Wilford being gone. Mel doesn’t know how to feel about it. Maybe she’s too sick and preoccupied with her injuries to care much. Maybe when she recovers all the feelings of relief and anger and hope will come back. What must Alex be thinking? Even if he was a terrible person, Alex still spent seven years with him. There’s so much Mel wishes she could say. I’m sorry. I’m proud of you. I love you. I’m sorry. All of that will come. All she can do now is hold Alex’s hand as tight as possible.
“I’m sorry,” comes Pelton’s voice, “time’s up.” Alex’s hand withdraws from Mel’s. “I love you, mom,” she says, then the door slams shut, and she’s gone.
“You have a good daughter,” Pelton says once Alex has left. Mel doesn’t have the voice to agree, but she does. Her heart still aches at how good Alex is; Wilford wasn’t able to burn that out of her, and god knows he must have tried. When Mel recovers, she will fall at Alex’s feet and beg forgiveness for everything she’s put her through. It still probably won’t be enough.
“Okay, I know you weren’t looking forward to this,” the doctor says, “but it’s time to put y’all back on the nebuliser.”
Mel panics almost immediately. Hot tears begin flowing, running down her face and stinging her burn wounds. No…no, no! I don’t want it! She can feel her mouth going dry and sweat forming in her palms. Too weak to move, and she can’t even see it coming. Mel thinks vaguely that she should probably shut up and stop being immature about it, but the sobs are coming too quick.
“Let it out,” Pelton says, more kindly than Mel’s ever known her to be. “Just cry yourself out if you need to. Get it out of your system.”
When the sobs finally subside, Mel’s entire body is shaking and utterly exhausted. Her eyes sting, her throat burns, and she’s still just as scared as before. What was the point?
“Okay,” the doctor says softly, “I’ve got the mask right here. I’m gonna put it on you now.”
Mel whips her face away, whining. Don’t want it. Please, don’t make me!
“Melanie,” Pelton insists firmly, “I have to do this. You need this mask, I don’t know how else to say it. I can’t give you the medication any other way. I will hold your face still if I need to. I don’t think you’ll like that.”
Mel stops struggling. No way she’ll let Pelton manhandle her into it. “Good,” the doctor says, then Mel feels the mask on her face. Her entire body recoils from it—she hates this so much. The smell of plastic is overwhelming. Mel moans piteously. “I know,” Pelton says softly, taking her hand. “I know it’s hard. Go to sleep. It’ll go quicker that way.”
Mel might as well—if it means she can escape reality. She closes her eyes, and tries not to think about the mask sitting on her face. There must be something in the mist she’s breathing that’s making her drowsy; it’s getting harder to stay awake. “That’s right,” says Pelton, her voice sounding very far away. “Just let go.”
The last thing Mel hears before she passes out is the hissing of the nebuliser ushering her into unconsciousness.
Mel feels her eyes opening, but she can’t see anything. It’s too dark, it’s too cold. She tries to sit up, but every muscle violently protests, and she has to flop back down. Her heart speeds up—where am I?
“Whoa, slow down there,” comes Pelton’s voice. Mel feels hands gently holding down her shoulders, as if the doctor’s worried she’s going to make another break for it. “Where are y’all off to? Try and stay still, or that synthetic skin is gonna crack.”
Mel stops trying to move. She’s still not used to waking up without seeing. “You’re shivering,” the doctor says. “I turned up the thermostat just now. It might take a while to kick in. Did you have a bad dream or something?”
Mel doesn’t actually know. She doesn’t feel the residual terror that permeates her body after a nightmare. She gives her best approximation of a shrug. “It’s alright,” Pelton says gently. “Sometimes you just wake up randomly. I’m sleeping in here now, by the way. You’re really too sick to be left alone, and I don’t trust anyone else with you. I don’t care what those Headwoods say. They’re still Wilford’s people. Are you thirsty? Blink twice for yes, once for no.”
Of course Mel is thirsty. She genuinely can’t remember the last time she drank something. Assumedly there’s water in her IV so she doesn’t get too dehydrated, but her throat feels like a desert. She blinks twice.
“Alright. I’ll get you some water. Sit tight.” Pelton’s footsteps get quieter. Mel licks her dry lips in anticipation of the water. They are so chapped she can feel the cracks in them. How long was she in the cold before the train picked her up? How damaged is she on the outside? Mel imagines every mirror in the vicinity cracking. She’s not sure whether to laugh or cry about it.
“I’m back,” says Pelton. “I have this damp washcloth here.” Mel feels it against her lips; it’s practically inundated with water. “Sorry about the weird setup, but I’m a little nervous letting you have actual liquids. I don’t know what your swallow reflex is like, and I’d prefer you don’t aspirate.”
Mel takes the washcloth in her mouth and sucks on it like a baby. The water is so cool and fresh, it’s like the tears of Jesus going down her throat. “For your sake, I’d suggest you drink it slowly,” Pelton says drily. “I don’t want to get in trouble for waterboarding the head engineer.”
Mel doesn’t care if she drowns herself with this water. She’s just so damn thirsty. Eventually she drinks the cloth dry. “You probably don’t remember this,” Pelton says as she gently takes the cloth away, “but you were super dehydrated when you came back from the station. Trying to get an IV in was damn near impossible. Your arm looks like a dartboard. Sorry for the imagery, but thought I might warn you before your sight comes back.”
Mel swallows a few times, just relishing how soothed her throat feels. Not enough, she thinks—“More,” she croaks out. “I want more.”
“Wow, you can talk now. I was wondering how long that would take.” Pelton leaves, comes back with a re-watered washcloth. After another round of that, Mel’s thirst finally feels sated. She lets herself relax back into the pillows.
“How does your vision feel?” Pelton asks. Mel hears the distinct wet slap of the cloth landing in a sink.
“Can’t see. Still blurry.”
“Yeah. The Headwoods told me that the eye medication would take a while to work.”
“That’s great,” Mel grumbles.
“Your sarcasm is coming back. That’s good to see. Are you in any pain?”
That’s when Mel realises that no, she’s not in pain. Apart from breathing, everything feels fine, if a little tight. “No,” she says.
“That synthetic skin is really great,” Pelton says, and Mel detects a hint of pride in her voice. “I didn’t have to use any grafts. That would have necessitated a visit to Big Alice. I’d like to avoid that. If at all possible.”
Mel feels a rush of gratitude to this woman for her quiet protectiveness. “Wilford’s really gone?”
“Yeah, he is. Shot during the second Revolution, or whatever you want to call it. I’ll wait for your daughter to tell you, though. Seems like the right thing to do.”
Mel breathes in, and out. There’s nothing to fear anymore. Everything can be fixed. The passengers will be angry—they’ll grieve, they’ll look for someone to blame. That’s not much, in the grand scheme of things. She’ll figure it out.
It strikes Mel that she really doesn’t know that much about Pelton, or vice-versa—yet she sacrificed her own sleep and her own bed to be there for her. Mel doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it in a way that would be understandable. “What’s your first name?” Mel asks, before she can stop herself.
Pelton sounds surprised that she’s asking. “Don’t you have access to all the population records up in Hospitality? I feel like you’d know by now.”
The doctor’s right about Hospitality having that information, but it never really occurred to her to check. “Never looked,” Mel says simply.
“Well, it’s Jessica,” Pelton says drily. “I always disliked it. Never felt like me, you know. When I became a doctor, I just introduced myself with my surname to everyone. The only person who uses my name is the guy in Second Class I stay with sometimes.”
“It’s a nice name,” Melanie says, for lack of anything else to say.
“Eh. It’s just a word. It’s not who I am anymore.” They don’t talk for a very long time. Mel feels the train bank slightly, the quiet screech of wheels on metal. “Want me to stay until you fall asleep?” Pelton says, sounding almost motherly. “Happy to stick around, but I can leave—”
“No, stay,” Mel begs, her hand reaching out. “Don’t go.”
“Alright, I won’t,” the doctor says, taking her hand. “I’m right here.”
“You won’t go, right?” Mel asks weakly. She hates herself for asking twice, but she does not want to be left alone, even when she’s asleep.
“No, I won’t,” Pelton says patiently. “I’m on a camp bed right next to you. I promise I won’t leave unless you ask me to.”
Mel feels slightly better hearing that. Even if she can’t see her, knowing Pelton’s right there is comforting. Mel squeezes her hand, and relaxes even further when the doctor does the same thing.
“You’re safe now,” Pelton says quietly. “You can go to sleep. Nobody will hurt you.”
Mel closes her eyes and tries to think of something nice.
Newborn Alex, asleep in her crib, a soft downy fuzz of black hair already growing on her head.
Five-year-old Alex, first day at school, wearing a pink backpack almost as large as she is.
Eight-year-old Alex, wearing a pink puffer jacket, reading a book in the car on the way to the aquarium.
Mel can’t even get to present-day Alex; she’s too tired, and the memories quickly send her into a deep, unbroken sleep.
The next morning Mel wakes up, and she is no longer blind.
Her vision is still extremely blurred—all she can see is shapes and colours, shifting in and out of focus, but it’s better than the dark. There’s white light coming from her right, drowning everything else out. The clamp has made a reappearance—Mel feels it hanging off her index finger.
“Rise and shine,” comes Pelton’s voice. Mel can see her—it’s just a vaguely shadowy blob, but it’s there. “How are we feeling?”
“Alright,” Mel says scratchily. “I can see a little.”
“Those eye drops must be working,” the doctor says. “Here they are. Eyes wide.” Once she’s done administering them, Mel can hear her opening and shutting drawers. “I was thinking maybe we could get y’all moving a little more today. It must be pretty annoying just lying there. Your skin’s healing pretty good—I’d say it should be fine.”
It takes a few hours for Pelton to actually do this. She has to wait for Zarah first (“Gotta have a spotter,” she quips) and make sure Mel’s eaten/drunk something. It comes out of a straw and has a thick yet smooth consistency. She recognises it as being a meal-replacement drink, and struggles not to gag.
“Drink it,” Pelton commands. “All of it.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Be that as it may, I’m not adding malnutrition to your laundry list of injuries.” Mel finishes the awful mixture. The straw retreats, and she breathes a silent sigh of relief.
When Zarah finally turns up, she and Pelton deliberate on what to do. “I’m scared of touching her,” Zarah says first. “Her skin—”
“It’s just frostbite, and it’s mostly healed anyway,” Pelton says.
“But still. Those burn wounds—“
“She’s not made out of papier-mâché,” Pelton says drily. “That synthetic skin works, Zarah. You actually have to pull it off with intent”—the doctor goes silent; Mel assumes she’s imitating yanking it off—“it won’t come off just by simple handling. Let’s just do it, before you and Melanie chicken out.” Mel feels hands supporting her back, and then she’s moved to a sitting position. Her equilibrium is violently disrupted and her stomach flips. Almost immediately she is seized by a spasm of dry coughing, deep and painful. Clearly her lungs don’t appreciate being exerted this much. Zarah and Pelton have to hold her up, and while it ends quickly, Mel is left dizzy and short of breath.
“Saturation’s dropping,” says Zarah.
“Yes, I know, I can see the numbers just as well as you. Breathe, Melanie.”
Mel doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly she can’t breathe properly—her lung space has decreased by half. Immediately she starts shaking, and her heart rate speeds up. She can’t believe it: she’s going to suffocate here, with the only witnesses to her demise being Pelton and Zarah. Mel supposes she deserves it. “Can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t.”
“Fuck,” Pelton says under her breath, then she snaps, “Zarah, the oxygen. Bring it over here. Quickly.”
A few seconds later Mel feels the mask being held over her face, then oxygen pouring through it. She can’t even panic about it; her need for air is too great. She tries her best to take deep breaths as the pressure on her chest slowly recedes. Slowly the dizziness goes away, but the shaking refuses to abate.
“There you go,” Pelton says, her voice slightly nervous. “You’re alright now.”
God, just how sick is Mel really? It’s too much for her to handle this early in the morning, and she finds herself crying again. Unlike yesterday, it takes a long time for the sobs to subside. Mel just wants to crawl into a cave, fall asleep and wake up whole again, but she knows that’s a pipe dream. When she thinks of the long recovery stretching out in front of her, it crushes her like a ton of bricks.
“I’m gonna wipe your face,” Pelton says, then Mel feels a damp warm towel drying her tears. She can’t even be grateful this time round—she’s too humiliated at how much help she needs, that she’s not trusted to do even this little thing herself. “I wish I wasn’t sick anymore,” she whines.
“I know,” Zarah says gently, surprising Mel. “I know it sucks, I’m sorry.”
“What do you need?” Pelton asks her. “What would help you, Melanie?”
Stronger pain medication, Mel thinks ruefully, but she knows train economics. Unless her leg is falling off, the class-A narcotics are inaccessible to her. “I don’t know,” she says, unable to express anything more complex. Suddenly Mel feels very afraid. Pelton and Zarah have given her no cause to be, but her heart rate shoots up anyway. The monitor beeps in response. Mel eventually whispers, “I’m scared.”
“Of what?” Pelton asks. Zarah has gone silent: assumedly she’s letting Pelton take the lead.
“What if I never recover?” Mel asks in a small voice. She hates how weak and vulnerable she sounds, but it’s weighing too heavily on her mind. She needs someone to reassure her. “What if I just…remain like this, forever?”
“You won’t,” Pelton says patiently. “You’re already getting better.”
“Slowly,” Mel grouses.
“Better slow than not at all, don’t you think?” Mel feels her hand being taken. “Melanie, do you remember being brought here?”
Mel has tried periodically to dredge up any recollection of her journey back to the train, but nothing comes up. Maybe it’ll never come back. Judging by everyone’s reactions to Mel’s condition thus far, that might be a good thing. “When you got back to the train, you were in a breach suit. I assume you know that already. I had to cut it off you—the suit lining had fused to your body in some places. I could take your skin in my fingers and tear layers of it clean off. What’s your earliest memory of being here?”
Mel casts around in her mind for a while. “You sedated me,” she says hesitantly. “I couldn’t calm down, so you gave me drugs to make me sleep.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Pelton says, “That was a week after you got back on the train.”
Mel feels her stomach drop; a whole week of lost time! And Alex—was she really waiting outside for seven solid days? “I don’t remember anything before that.”
“We kept you sedated the whole week so you could heal. Your skin was like tissue paper and you couldn’t breathe on your own. It was easier.”
No wonder her skin and throat hurt. No wonder she found it so hard to breathe. Mel thinks she must have been on a ventilator. “So I am recovering?”
“Yes. It’s slow, but you’re getting there. You almost died, Melanie. Your daughter and that other engineer brought you in, and I thought, how the fuck am I meant to salvage this? It took hours to stabilise you, and the whole time I wondered if I should just put some morphine in your IV and let that be it. But you hung on, so I kept going.”
Mel isn’t even thrown by Pelton’s casual admission. On Snowpiercer, there’s no sense in grand, life-saving heroics. It was just a waste of resources. Pelton continues, “I’m not one to believe in miracles and all that jazz, but I still don’t know how you survived. Maybe you’re just that strong.” Mel feels the doctor let go of her hand. “I’m going to leave you with Zarah for a little while. I have to take some records down. I’ll be next door.” Footsteps receding, the door opening and closing. Mel’s heart clenches; I don’t want to be alone with her! Suddenly her entire body goes limp; she can’t stay up much longer. Mel feels herself being quickly guided into someone’s arms, being supported against their shoulder. She clutches at their hand, senses their warmth and their smell and the texture of a cable-knit sweater—decidedly not Pelton. “Zarah,” she chokes out.
“Yeah.” Zarah doesn’t say any more.
“Why?” Mel asks. Zarah doesn’t answer. She suddenly feels apprehensive—what if this other girl tries to enact some revenge for everything she’s done? “I won’t hurt you,” Zarah adds, her voice kinder than before. Maybe she senses the tension. “You can relax.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mel whispers. “For everything.”
“I know.”
Seconds pass in silence. “Deep breaths,” Zarah says. “Your saturation is still pretty low.”
“I’m trying.” Mel focuses on forcing her damaged lungs to expand, take in air, push it back out. “It’s so cold.”
“There’s a blanket down here.” Zarah reaches for it—it must be at the end of the bed—and wraps it around her. Mel leans her head against Zarah’s chest, listens to her heartbeat, regular and certain. So unlike the weak pulsating of her own. “Thank you,” Mel says, pulling the blanket a little tighter around herself.
Zarah shifts as if to go, but Mel grabs her sleeve. “Stay, please,” she begs. “Just a little longer.” The younger woman sighs, but she doesn’t seem annoyed. Mel missed having someone’s warmth by her side, even if it’s Zarah who’s providing it.
“Melanie,” Pelton says. She must have returned at some point. Once she’s sure Mel’s attention is focused on her, she says, “Take a nap. Go to sleep for an hour. You’ve been put through the wringer this morning.”
“No, don’t want to,” Mel whines. Now that she’s more lucid and the pain has gone away, any kind of horrors could be lurking in her subconscious, waiting to strike. Mel just wants to put the entire last month out of her mind, but she knows all too well that her mind often has other plans.
“You’ll have to get used to sleeping, Melanie,” says Pelton. “You’ll need a lot of it to recover fully.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Zarah says softly. Why on earth would you want to? Mel thinks incredulously, though she’s not about to protest. “Fine,” Mel says, “I’ll go to sleep.”
“Good. Zarah, can you hold down the fort for a little while longer? I’m going to find Layton and tell him about this whole thing”—Mel assumes Pelton means her recovery—“and maybe scrounge up some food from the cafeteria.”
“It’ll be fine,” Zarah says, then Mel hears the door sliding open and then shutting. They’re alone. “Why are you doing this?” Mel asks again. She wants an answer—it unsettles her that she doesn’t know Zarah’s motivations.
“I don’t know. I guess I realised before you’re human just like the rest of us. It’s easier to feel sympathy for you like this.” Mel isn’t even offended. She does not deserve Zarah’s kindness; she can handle a little bluntness from the younger girl. “Anyway, I don’t hate you. Or even dislike you all that much,” Zarah continues, “That time is past.”
This sounds perfectly reasonable to Mel, but also far too forgiving. “I did so much to you,” she says lamely. “I don’t deserve your help.”
“I haven’t forgotten it,” Zarah says flatly. “But I also realise that you do things like that sometimes, when you have no other choice. I chose to help you. Let me help you.” Mel tries not to be so tense. When her breathing gets worse, Zarah starts rubbing her back, slowly and regularly. “Try to sleep,” she says gently. Mel closes her eyes. The train shakes slightly back and forth. Zarah starts singing quietly, maybe just to herself, but Mel can still hear it. She doesn’t recognise the song, or even the language she’s using, but it’s comforting anyway. Mel feels herself calming down—her heart rate slowing, her breaths coming a little easier. Zarah’s sweater smells like the Nightcar—alcohol, leather seats, burnt wood—and underneath that, her own smell. Mel finds it comforting after the cold plastic sterility of the medical car—she lets the rhythm of Zarah’s heart and her singing lull her into an exhausted sleep.
Mel’s mind stays quiet; she just coasts along dreamlessly, waking hours later, refreshed and feeling safer than she has in a very long time.