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It only takes you an hour and enlisting Hellen to wrangle Xaria and Monty into turning their grindcore playlist down for the night. A grateful Sybil peeps through the wall to bid you goodnight, and then you have to give Saber a bedtime feeding, and then it's you and Hellen bartering how much of the couch you take up apiece—she staked dibs on the couch first, and you'd be the last person to part her from it if the two hellions hadn't kicked you from your own bed, you swear. She's more receptive than you expected—maybe she feels sorry about what happened to your arm earlier. But it's not a big couch. You get two cushions. She claims the other end, sleeping upright and eerily open-eyed. So you're scrunched up at your end of the couch trying not to be unnerved, with Saber balled up under the blanket at your side.
Not moving a muscle crumples into genuine stillness, because it can only stand up so for so long against the aches of the day. And even the aching falters, as the waking world retreats from your senses.
"Mr. Sam?"
A wet, shaky voice kicks you back into your body. You hoist your eyelids up to Joel hovering by the couch. Fuzzy is nearly hidden in the tight fold of his arms.
"Joel? What's going on?" You pronounce it as whussgon.
"I –hhh– can't sleep. I think I don't feel good."
"Don't feel good… how?" Don't feel good can mean a lot of things, and some of them send a bad feeling crawling down your back. "Like… pain? Feverish? Like you're sick to your stomach?"
"I don't know." Joel's head hangs down and he looks at his feet. His speech stumbles, weighed down by sleeplessness—and by something else. "Hhhh… I think… maybe… like I'm, hhh– going to be sick."
If Joel is about to be sick, your living room wall is about to get a new paint job, and that vaults you off the couch in a hurry. Saber starts squalling. She latches on with claws, needling through your shirt and breaking the skin of your arm. You hiss through your teeth. "Saber, shh, shh—" Your head swivels between the kids. "Joel—Saber—Joel—" Bathroom. "Bathroom." Holding Saber, you shepherd Joel with the point of your elbow—as hastily as you can without jarring him to vomit. If he throws up on the bathroom tile, it'll be easier to clean. When you were a kid your mom always magicked up a pink tub for you to puke in. In your adult life you've never owned one. Where do you even get one?
The bathroom light sears your eyes, and Saber bawls harder. Joel buckles over the bowl, Fuzzy clutched as a talisman to his chest. When you plop down at his side, your bones clatter in the sack of your flesh. Joel's spine and shoulders are rigid, and he breathes heavy but slow, punctuating every few seconds with the usual breathy slurp of him sucking his saliva back. Is that bad? Maybe it's bad. "Don't hold it back. Just let it rip." Maybe you're wrong, and that's actually the bad thing. You don't really know. You didn't ever figure on needing to.
Joel's low whine echoes in the bowl. He relaxes the ribbons of toothy tissue that make up most of his face. Ropes of drool hit the bowl with wet, even plunks, a steady rhythm with the ticking of minutes. Saber's crying recedes to fussing, though her claws are still in pretty deep. You hush and nuzzle her with your cheek, and she shifts her grip so she's clutching more at your shirt than at you. You can sort of still hold her this way, slung half over the crook of your shoulder. Heck, she seems to like it. You steady Joel with your palm. His shoulders lose some tension. His breathing is only a little uneven. Whatever would normally precede retching, it doesn't seem to be there.
When you think back to the last time you had to console a buddy through worshiping at the porcelain throne—you realize you've never done that, actually. A derivative impression exists in your mind, borrowed from TV and film—but you've just never been a party guy. That kind of thing is something that happens to people who live very different lives than you do.
Huddling with a couple of sick and tired kids at appalling hours of the night is also something that happens to people who live very different lives than you do—and yet here you are.
"Still feel sick to your stomach, buddy?"
"I don't know," Joel mumbles into the bowl. "I've never felt this awful before without throwing up." He shifts back from the bowl. "I don't actually know if it's –hhh– my stomach…"
You nudge: "Where is it, then?"
Joel just repeats, "I don't know." You shift your hand to the back of his neck—it's the only head-adjacent area of skin that isn't jagged with teeth. His skin looks waxen, bloodless, bordering more gray than brown. But his temperature seems normal—though your guess is less than informed. Pulse, too—you think. He fidgets worriedly. Is this better, or is it worse? You feel a tension headache coming on, except your head kind of hurt to begin with. Your stump kind of hurts. Your everything kind of hurts.
You sigh. "Just in case, let's get some medicine in you."
His dozens of teeth grit. "Do I need it, Mr. Sam?" It's the closest thing to vigor he's shown.
"Yes, Joel." It might sound paternally assertive if you weren't so tired. You move to rise from the floor, but Saber senses you shifting and digs in hard with a dangerous whine. You just stop yourself from swearing in front of an eight-year-old. "—um." You can't fault her for being crabby—you're crabby too—but good grief. "Give me a minute."
"Hhhh– I can hold her."
You blink. "Do you… I mean… Is that safe?"
"'Course it is. I'm really good at holding babies!" He props Fuzzy primly against the wall and holds out his arms for Saber. She perks up with curious squeaks. Maybe it isn't a terrible idea.
You offer her from your arm— "She bites," you warn, but Joel doesn't hesitate to take her into his. His hand cradles the base of her little head. Her nested jaws chitter. Just due to most of his face and neck being mouth, he holds her closer to his teeth than you suddenly wonder if you're comfortable with. The many teeth shift and articulate, fanning the way cobras splay their hoods. For a heartstopping moment, you wonder if you were worried about the wrong kid biting.
"Hhhh… Hi, Saber."
He's smiling. Saber smiles back and squeaks a giggle. He is good at this.
There's medicine in the cabinet, and a thermometer that Joel cranes his head to let you tuck into a fold of gums. It reads out a little cool. You portion out a half-capful of nausea medicine and say, "Trade you." Maybe you should've guessed that request would find him more reluctant. Saber warbles as he retracts, shoulders meekly hunched.
"Umm… What if I just –hhh– keep holding Saber?"
Honestly, she seems comfy, but you press. "You need to take your medicine, Joel."
"But it's pink medicine," he grimaces. "I don't like pink medicine."
"Nobody likes pink medicine." You shake your head. "The trick is to knock it back quick. Like—" Well, you only have one hand to mime with, and that hand's holding the cap. You shut your eyes tight. It doesn't help with the headache. "Trade? Please?" At heart, Joel's a good kid. He trades Saber to you and accepts the capful of dubious pink. With Saber fussing in your arm, you gesture with your wrist. "Just like so."
Joel peers at the menacing cap—you have to imagine, because the boy's lost both eyes, but the distrust oozes from him. It shakes as Joel slings its contents into the gape of his mouth. The liquid washes the gummy abyss for a moment—then it's gone.
"I barely –hhh– tasted it," he marvels.
"And you'll feel better soon."
"I hope so," he says, and your heart pangs.
Restless Saber's taken to clambering back up your arm—you really shouldn't have let your guard down. Now she rounds your shoulder and perches on the stump of your other—and there's her claws again. Always in the exact last place you want them. You never figured on a baby being so nimble—if a baby is what she even is—but she coils her hind limbs to springboard off you and return to Joel. "Saber! Behave —hhh— yourself!" He puts his hands up to calm her. Saber takes the invitation and jumps. This hurts exactly as bad as you thought it would. You cover your mouth to mute your cry, but Joel's well and truly distracted. She landed on his shirt, and her brown, wormy tail thwop-thwops on his front as her claws cling. He scrambles to get a proper hold on her. Oddly, she's more cooperative with him. She melts for him like a ragdoll cat.
"Did she scratch you?" There are pinprick holes in his shirt, but you don't see blood, and Joel confirms no with a shake of his head. (What makes him so special, you wonder?) "I guess she likes you a lot," you say.
"I guess so. Hh…"
Her black, beady eyes bug in and out from the sockets as happy chitters bubble from her. She sure tore up your shirt, for all she's so docile now. You peep through the tears and find claw rips pocking the gauze over your still-raw stump. That's not hygienic—but you were due for a change anyway. "Can I ask you a favor? Keep hold of her for a bit, please?"
"I can!" Even Joel observes, "She's really —hhh— calm right now…" She turns into him, all four forepaws tucked up to her chest—the very picture of peace if you didn't know what she'd been up to a minute ago.
You grapple with a roll of bandages one-armed, two-footed, and with your teeth. It's… uncomfortable. "Don't look." You pretzel around so you're not waving the exposed raw stump right in Joel's face—if it matters. "This is awkward. Sorry." You really should've picked up yoga, like you kept meaning to before the world as you knew it ended. The wound seeps, red and ugly—and yet somehow you expected it to be worse than it is. You are grateful for the things you can be, in this world.
Joel's usual damp wheezing is the only sound that's come from him the past couple of minutes. And even that sounds quieter than normal.
You pause tying off your stump. "Hey, Joel?"
"Hhhh… Does it hurt?"
"Come again?"
The abyss of Joel's face fixes on you. He sits rigid—Saber seems to sense the change, nosing at him. "Does it hurt?" It's the kind of blunt, obvious-answer question that a child his age would ask—except for the way his voice is small, tight, crackly with teeth grinding beneath his sternum. He sounded that way when his brother—
"It doesn't—" The lie catches in your throat as you try to utter it. Joel's maw contorts in what can only be disbelief—but for heaven's sake, what do you tell him? You're supposed to be the adult here. You can't heap that on him—he's got enough nightmare to deal with as it is. "—that bad. Anymore. Not really." You clear your throat. "Well, it hurt a lot when it… happened. But it doesn't hurt so much now. It just has to get better. That's all."
"You screamed really loud." Joel's voice is distant. "Hhhh– And you bled a lot."
The bathroom light burns too bright against your eyes, too hot against your neck. You pull in your knees. "You shouldn't have had to see that. I'm sorry." It must be catching, whatever bug Joel's got, because the pit of your stomach feels like roiling tar.
"You didn't get up for –hhh– a long time." Joel rocks with Saber in his arms. The motion isn't soothing him—it's making poor Saber antsy if it's doing anything. "Ms. Hellen wasn't sure –hhh– if you would. Ms. Leigh got angry…"
It's a cold memory—not in a way that brings any relief to you now. The heel of Hellen's heavy boot scraping at the floor—the closest you've ever seen her to off-kilter. Leigh's nails in your scalp, and her rasping in your ear she'd hunt you down in hell if you didn't get up. Trying. The murky realization that the arm you're trying to right yourself with isn't there anymore. Your body limp and frigid in the puddle of your sticky, cooling blood—
and Saber.
"I couldn't let it hurt her."
Joel halts mid-rock. Saber noses at the air, chirping—does she understand you well enough to know you're talking about her?
"I didn't… I don't ever want to put you guys in harm's way. I wasn't going to let it eat her, if I had any other option." You shrug helplessly. "And I had one."
You hadn't even named her yet. Up to that point you didn't even intend to keep her around, really. But you woke up and she was there, chittering and pawing at you, splashed in blood that wasn't hers.
Krr? Krr? A quartet of paws patters at your shins. Yeah, it was a lot like that.
When you peek over your knees, Saber's snout pokes into your face. Joel scoots closer to watch her clamber up your legs. You lower them and allow her to ball up comfy-cozy in the hollow of your lap. Joel slumps against your intact shoulder—he's damp around the neck, owing to the drool, but he can't help it. A little shaky—not from fear or fever—more the way you start shaking on your feet, sometime around noon, the day after an all-nighter. When you bring your arm around his shoulders, it eases.
"Do you feel better now?"
Joel sits with his cheek leaking on your shoulder, wheezing thoughtfully.
"Not –hhh– really."
At this point you're at a loss.
"Maybe… it just means you're becoming a grownup."
"Being a grownup feels like this?"
The band of tension around your skull tightens. The backs of your eyelids drape your vision in red. "All the time."
"I think I don't –hhh– wanna be a grownup, Mr. Sam," Joel murmurs.
"I know. But I guess we don't decide when it happens." He is grinding his teeth. You squeeze his shoulder, and the sound tapers off. Saber's belly rises and falls with the deep breathing of sound sleep—carefree as anything. Joel slumps. What would be Joel's brow if his face weren't a hole turns into your shoulder. Some of the new teeth growing in at his hairline poke you as he gnaws unconsciously on your skin. He breathes against your neck, long, steady, gurgly exhales. It's not peace, but it's the closest thing.
It's your job to make sure they don't grow up too fast, these kids. It's not a job you'd choose for yourself, but you don't get to choose, either.
You almost don't have the strength to get up from the bathroom floor yourself, but in the morning your neck will regret it. And Joel is starting to drool on you. "Joel." He answers you with a gravelly groan. "Joel, we need to go to actual bed, okay?"
"Mm." He reaches as if to rub his eyes, before he remembers. "Okay." You scoop Saber into your arm with little resistance, while Joel re-collects Fuzzy and extracts from it a comforting squeeze. When you turn off the light, you need a minute for your eyes to adjust to the dark, though Joel doesn't seem to. You pick your way among your sleeping roommates. The strangest thing is that Hellen stayed upright on the couch the whole time. Has she really been sleeping? You aren't sure if you saw her eyes flicker beneath her mask.
"If you want to bring your sleeping bag closer to the couch you can," you whisper.
"I'd like that," Joel says.
Climbing back onto your side of the couch without disturbing either Hellen or Saber is a stealth mission, but not once do you stir either of them. Joel pulls his sleeping bag parallel to the couch, close enough that you can reach over the edge and pat him to bid him goodnight. "Night, Joel."
"Goodnight –hhh– Mr. Sam."
So you find yourself in the same position you were in before—with Saber burrowed in the crook of your arm, and you in a wooden, knee-cricked, bed-too-small hunch, breathing like breathing too loud will get you killed. You lie unresting like that, listening to Joel wetly snore—peeping through the hairline crack of one eyelid.
The gray glints of Hellen's eyes pin you where you lie.
"Sorry," you breathe. "For all of that. Sorry."
Her hand is bigger than your face. You suspect the full force of her grip could break a bone. Exerting a fraction of that force on your knee, with a grip firm and warm, she flattens your leaden legs over her lap. She shuffles your blanket up about your chin, and her fingers ghost the round lump of Saber tucked into your arm. Then she seamlessly takes up the same posture as before, steady as a sentinel.
She says, "Don't be," and by it you think she means, Sleep well.