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It’s not that Arthur doesn’t believe—he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. But for all the hoofbeats, he’s seen vanishingly few zebras. This is their eighth “exorcism;” they’ve yet to find one true case of possession.
Paranormal or no, it’s still a nightmare. Marielle Hargrove’s body rests lifelessly on her childhood bed, eerily still with sedation. She’s only nineteen, but it’s impossible to tell behind her sallow, waxy skin, mottled with a rainbow of bruises. Her eyes are sunken, her figure emaciated. Half-dead. Arthur swallows a bubble of nausea as he starts her PASIV line.
Probably just a coma; if she’s still here, they’ll find her.
Eames, of course, doesn’t flag. His smile is warm as he reassures her mother, and his voice is warm as he soothes Mari’s sleeping form, and his hand is warm as he double-checks Arthur’s IV. Arthur nods.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hargrove whispers, pushing the plunger.
They find her at the end of a narrow hallway, her huddled silhouette framed by the dilapidated bay window. Arthur’s two paces ahead, but it’s Eames who kneels down beside her, gently grasping her arm.
“Mari?”
“Hello?” Her voice is vague and tremulous, scratchy with apparent disuse.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Eames says with a grin. “Are you alright?”
Mari blinks owlishly. “Are you...real?”
“Yes,” Eames promises. “We’re here to help. Your mother is missing you terribly.”
The silence is long, and Mari makes no move to stand. Instead, she shakes her head, stringy hair falling around her face.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks.
It’s all wrong, and Arthur lurches forward, reaching for Eames. But the darkness is already descending, blotting out the moonbeams from the window.
There are copious tears from Mari and her mother, joyous even in their obvious exhaustion. Arthur removes her line so they can embrace properly, and Mrs. Hargrove holds her close, like she might vanish again if she lets go.
All in all, it’s a wonderful scene, and Arthur is relieved as he notifies their family doctor. He ignores the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Alright, darling?” Eames asks lowly, coming to stand beside him. Arthur looks up as he respools the PASIV.
“Yeah,” he agrees, waving him off.
“Marvelous work.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Eames reaches out, and Arthur gratefully lets him help him to his feet. When he goes to check on Mari, though, Arthur’s smile falters.
Eames’ skin is freezing.