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Somehow, The Farmer was still conscious when Harvey answered the door.
It was late, past midnight. That’s how it always went with these things. He’d been asleep when he heard the pounding downstairs, barely had time to fumble his glasses on before he met them in the doorway. He was barefoot, pajama clad. Half-dreaming.
She was draped over Linus’s shoulder like a scarf, swaying on her feet, her head lolling into his neck. There was dust in her tangled hair, blood streaming from her nose, soaking the front of her shirt all the way to her navel. The collar of it had been ripped to the armpit, fabric hanging.
His heart lurched, violent as a car crash, as he noted the perfect imprint of a bite on her sun-burnt shoulder. Comingling with her freckles like a wolf among sheep. Square-toothed. Deep.
Human.
Something— someone— bit her.
Linus’s arm was locked around her waist in a vice grip, a wild look in his eye.
“Help me with her.”
Harvey ripped his eyes from her shoulder like tearing meat from bone. The back of his neck was cold, every hair standing on end.
“Of course,” he heard himself say. His own voice sounded very far away. He couldn’t look at her, at it, without feeling violently light-headed. He turned his focus to her crutch.
Linus was an old man. He knew that, logically, though he’d never really paid mind to it. In the exam room light, he could see every broken vein in his eye, every line on his tanned face. Her blood was spattered across his cheek, soaking his beard. His chest was heaving, and Harvey wasn’t sure it was from the exertion of carrying her across town or the sight of her. As if sensing his assessment, Linus pressed her into Harvey’s chest, too tired to keep hold of her. Without a second thought, he took her.
She smelled like grass, chicken feathers. Mango body wash.
Blood.
His knees were weak, but he didn’t falter. She was not a small girl, but he was stronger than he felt.
She stirred against his chest, let out a little groan. Her head lolled back, and instinctively, he cradled the nape of her neck with his hand, like propping up a newborn. There was a crown of sweat on her forehead, little beads glinting like diamonds in the bright lights. Her lids fluttered, her eyes (her bright, smiling eyes) bleary and unfocused. Their noses were almost touching. Her breath ghosting across his lips.
A half second of stillness passed. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her brows stitched together in concentration. She licked her lips and searched: studying the grays at his temple, his crow’s feet, his mustache that needed a trim. Recognition bloomed across her face, unfurling like flower petals.
And then, Yoba help him, she smiled. Her cheeky little grin, the one that preceded gifts of pickled eggplant and generous cups of coffee. Her every tooth framed in red. His heart squeezed like a fist.
Her voice was small, just a murmur. “Oh, hey, Doc.”
Beyond reason, chest thrumming with warmth, he smiled back.
“Hello there, f—”
Her eyes rolled all the way back, whites showing. Her features went slack. She fainted before he could get the word out, dropping limp in his arms. They staggered together, his knees hitting the tile as she lurched back, his hand cradling her head, so she didn’t knock it against the doorway. His knuckles took the brunt of it. He let out a bark for Linus to help him, and together they drug her inside, lifted her into a bed.
Even in the pandemonium, his eyes never left her face; her mouth still curved up, just a little, at the corner.
“She was in the mines again.”
Harvey’s eye twitched as though he could flick the information away, the words landing on his skin like flies on a horse. He could feel every one of his veins expanding, capillaries flooding, as his blood pressure rose. His face flashed so hot it fogged his glasses.
He already knew it, just didn't want to have it confirmed.
The fucking mines. Again.
Linus ate as he spoke. He’d fought Harvey on his offer of a shower but relented on the food. The doctor let him take whatever he wanted from his refrigerator as payment, and he returned to the exam room toting microwave risotto and untoasted whole grain bread to sop it with. He ate quickly, head ducked low as if in prayer.
Harvey focused on the conversation as he worked, to keep the shake out of his fingers. He was measuring out 2 cc’s of penicillin, preparing an intravenous drip. He didn’t respond, didn’t need to. The old man spoke, and he listened, so the tears wouldn’t fall.
He was an angry crier. It was one of the myriad traits he loathed about himself, next to his lily-livered cowardice and his tendency toward passivity. In his youth, it embarrassed him, the way water would spring to his eyes at the slightest provocation.
Now, it was an inconvenience, now it blurred his vision.
She needed his clarity. His focus.
He sniffed loudly, blinked hard. He tried to think of things he liked. He thought of fighter pilots and starfruit wine. Thought of an impertinent patient and her bright laughter. How he’d like to hear it again.
The tears receded, shrunk back into their ducts. He cleared his throat, kept moving.
If Linus saw how he floundered, he didn’t show it. He just kept talking. “She’s lucky there was horseradish growing by the cave mouth, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard her scream.”
Whatever had attacked her must have been truly terrifying. The Farmer, his fearless, grinning farmer, had been afraid enough to scream. The concept seemed incongruent to her nature; he couldn’t picture it. The idea of it made his teeth ache.
He had to ground himself. Had to focus.
Linus’s fork scraped against the plate, chasing the last few grains of rice. The fluorescents above them audibly hummed.
Slowly, she inhaled. Slowly, she exhaled. He tuned into the easy motion of her chest. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing. That helped. Soothed him, just a tad.
He did not look at the bruises blooming under each of her eyes, confirming his fear that her nose was broken. He did not look at her wrist, sprained approximately to the 3rd degree, ligaments torn, tendons stretched, potential nerve damage. He absolutely did not look at the bite on her shoulder.
If he did, he’d die.
He measured out the Imovax. He breathed.
“You alright, son?” There was a hand on shoulder. He jolted.
Harvey snapped back to his body, to the syringe he was holding. He was about to stick himself. He met Linus’s wary gaze again, and the old man held up his hand, his placating palm covered in callouses. His fingers thick and bending with the beginning of arthritis. They held each other’s gaze, and then Harvey gave him a nod.
“Yes. Thank you for bringing her in.” He wanted to say more. Didn’t. Couldn’t. His tongue felt heavy. His mouth tight.
Linus glanced over to the girl. Something flashed over his face, like a shooting pain. Harvey felt it like a kick in the chest, resonated with it. Related to it.
Linus loved her. Of course, he did. The whole town did, even crotchety Mr. Mullner and Shane, that taciturn stocker at Joja market. It made sense. Loving her was the easiest thing in the world to do.
The old man turned to face the door. When he reached the threshold, he called over his shoulder. “I’ll go get her pack, bring it back in the morning. I know where she left it.”
Harvey didn’t say anything more. He turned to his patient, just kept moving.
The Farmer was not made for easy examination, in either the metaphorical or literal sense; She was so dehydrated her veins had all but disappeared, buried like gas lines deep under her clammy skin. He spent a good minute searching for them in the ditch of her elbow.
When he finally found one, it rolled under his fingers like a serpent. He marked the spot with the cap of the catheter. The drip line pierced her skin cleanly, no mess. No bleed.
He took her vitals twice. Had to, he couldn’t hear it the first time for the sound of his own heart drumming in his ear. He tried to remember all he could from her annual checkup: her blood type was A . She was not allergic to latex or penicillin. The only medication she took was a hormonal birth control and the only thing she complained of was an achy back. Her iron had been low.
(He’d told her to eat more spinach. Leafy greens. She was sitting in a shaft of light, by the window in his office. It was summer. Her skin was aglow, health and vigor radiating off her like heat. She’d blinked at him innocently, all doe eyes and serenity, then asked if algae counted.)
When she woke up, he was going to kill her.
But until then, he worked.
He was wrapping his own hand when she stirred. His knuckles were scraped from where he caught her the threshold. Throbbing, just a little. It was half past 3 in the morning. He could hear birds tittering in the branches outside his window, hear the TV in Pierre’s house come on next door. The daughter, surly and purple-haired, was awake and playing video games. Abigail never slept. He wondered how she even functioned.
The youth care not for their future. They only think of now.
“How’d you hurt your hand?” Her voice was scratchy, but her words were coherent. He was glad for that; she didn’t need a TBI on top of everything else.
He didn’t look up right away. He was trying to calm his breathing, trying to lower his blood pressure with sheer will power. The panic had boiled away, and all that was left was a simmering kind of disappointment. Sadness, with a glinting edge.
“Doctor?”
He flinched but didn’t look up. He studied the back of his own hand, thought about skeletal structures. There are 27 bones in a human hand. 8 carpal, 5 metacarpal, 14 phalanges. A neuron fires, and one of 6 finger muscles contracts, to bend the flesh. Electricity dictating every movement. When he thought about it too hard, even after 8 years of medical school, and 10 years of practice, it made his head spin. He flexed his fingers and felt a little rush of pain.
“Harvey?”
He looked up at her then. It wasn’t often she said his name; he made a mental note of it. It sounded different in her mouth, the syllables caressed instead of slapped. If he wasn’t so hypertensive, he would relish it.
She seemed uncharacteristically delicate lying there, like a stiff breeze could bowl her over. Her skin was gray and waxy, her lips pale. Her expression was foreign, one he’d never seen her wear: somewhere between bone-deep exhaustion and profound confusion. His head was killing him. He pushed his glasses off his eyes and onto his forehead. She blurred into a watercolor, no bruises framing her eyes, no blood on her clothes. Everything an indistinct smear.
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Tears were welling. He fought them.
Won.
“You’re asking the wrong questions.” He was hoarse, as if he’d been yelling for a very long time. His throat was Calico Desert dry.
He drug his glasses back down and she came sharply into focus again.
“I don’t underst—”
“The question isn’t what happened to my hand,” his voice was low, he was not an angry yeller. “The question is why are you here?”
Indignation sparked on her face. She turned away from him, just for a moment. Looked toward the clock on the wall, searched its face for answers. She clenched her jaw, and a bloom of red washed over her face. She brought her bandaged hand to cover her eyes, and then blinked. He watched as she registered the wrapping around her wrist. As she rotated it back and forth in front of her face, like it wasn’t her hand but a stranger’s. She looked down at herself, took in the carnage. Her wrapped hand met her shoulder. (Bites are not to be stitched, unless they are facial, to discourage infection. It was packed with gauze, and covered in bandages, flushed with iodine 5 different times. He’d counted.)
She winced, and let out an exasperated little, “Fuck.”
Harvey had never heard her swear before. The juxtaposition of a coarse word against her soft lips should have made him flush. Would have, under different circumstances. But, in that room, in the heavy, humming air, all he could do was agree.
Yes, it was fucked.
“Your nose was broken, before you ask. A minor fracture, luckily, surgery isn’t necessary. I set it while you were out.”
She touched the tip of it with tender fingers, as if to check that it was still there.
(It had popped under his hand as loudly as uncorking a wine bottle. He’d felt it in his knees. Almost fainted. Delicate as he was, procedural gore never bothered him. He’d been covered in every possible fluid, seen gangrenous feet and a dozen compound fractures. They’d never made him feel like that. She was eroding something. She made him unsteady.)
He was precarious. Propped uneasily on a cliff’s edge. He was tipping over.
He continued, his uninjured hand gripping his thigh so hard his knuckles were turning white. “Your wrist is sprained. A good one. That probably will need surgery, because Yoba knows you’re not going to let it rest for 8 weeks.” He laughed, despite himself, a delirious little chuckle. He imagined her wandering right out of his clinic to milk her cows and harvest her melons, wincing while she worked.
“Harvey.”
Her face was unreadable. There was a disappointment in her voice that he felt in his sternum. Something sad in her eyes. He couldn’t look at that. No, that was too much. So, he stared at her shoulder, kept his focus on that. Because the words were flooding him. Because now that he’d started, with his eyes locked on that spot, there was no way he could stop.
“You got a tetanus booster, and I’m prescribing a full round of antibiotics to be taken orally, twice a day. Full meal each time. No ocean detritus, real food. Vitamins, minerals, protein. I gave you the first of 5 rabies shots, in 3 days you will receive your second. If you’re not in my clinic at 9 o’clock that morning I will find you and administer it in the field. Ask George Mullner if I make house calls. Not sure exactly what the culprit was, but something bit you. I’m no zoologist, bear that in mind, but after some deduction I determined the incisors weren’t sharp enough to be any carnivorous animal. The mouth structure too round to be from something long snouted. Too big for a bat. A bear would have ripped you to piec—”
He stopped himself, once the first tear fell. Turned his full body from her, covered his face with both hands. It was too much. He was too much.
The chair he sat in was for visitors, propped within arm’s reach of the bed. He knew that, even with the logical part of his brain disconnected. Still, when he felt her hand meet his head, when it carded sweetly through his hair, he froze.
With each stroke, his heartbeat slowed. With each stroke, his brain went quiet.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone, anyone, had touched him. Suddenly, he was very tired. His breathing even. His eyes dried. His hands slid away from his face and into his lap.
He looked back at her, all the anger wrought from his bones. Her hand was cradling his neck, her thumb stroking back and forth on his jugular. The Farmer up on her elbows, staring down on him, soft as starlight. His leaned into her touch like a dog.
“Why do you keep going?” he asked her fingers. “What’s down there?”
She smiled, just a little. One of her bicuspids was chipped. “Rocks, mostly. Ore, if I’m lucky.” Her hand slid from his neck, and she laid back, eyes half-lidded. Too tired to keep propped up. There were goosebumps on her arms.
His placed his hand where her’s had been, held it there.
She nestled into the pillows, drew her blankets up to her chin. Shuddered, once.
“I was looking for gold. I need it for my melon patch, I don’t have enough sprinklers to fully automate, and I want time to do anything other than water, I’ve gotta get some. So, I figured I’d, ya know, go on a little expedition.” She shrugged as she spoke, wrapped herself up tighter in the sheets. “I had to go deeper than I usually do, I’ve all but stripped those first few shafts…”
“Clint sells it by the pound,” Harvey said, as if it would sway her.
She rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Yeah, for 750 bucks. I think not. Besides, I don’t like how he treats Emily. Once, I learn to crack my own geodes, it’s over for him.”
He snorted at that. She was a fearsome friend, his little farmer.
Well, she wasn’t his, was she? Clearly, he had no sway. She wasn’t anyone’s. She was a wild, unknowable thing. Still—
He spoke before he thought, “I’ll buy you some sprinklers. No ore necessary.”
It was her turn to laugh, just a little huff. Her eyes were kind. “With what money, Doc?”
She didn’t mean it harshly; he knew that in his bones. He’d mentioned money troubles to her too many times, made too many jokes about her injuries paying his electric bill. He quirked a brow, gave her a flimsy grin. “Touche.”
He gnawed his lower lip, knit his brows together. A question burned in his throat. Finally, he asked it: “What can I do to make you to stop?”
(Truth be told, he’d give her anything she asked for to keep her out of those mines. She just had to name the price. All the money he could muster, all the precious metal he could pluck from the earth. He’d be her scarecrow, standing out in her field, chasing birds away from her crops if it meant she’d stay inside and just sit still. Just let her bones heal. Her budget was infinite. If she wanted it, it was hers.)
The Farmer considered him, her eyes tracing all along his face. She shrugged her good shoulder, shook her head. “Nothing.”
(He knew she’d say that. Still, it stung.)
He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighed. Defeated.
She shivered again, huddled deeper under the covers. She gave him a pleading look.
“Harvey?” He wasn’t angry anymore. He savored the sound of it, held it in his head like you’d hold a bird in your palm.
“Yes, sweetheart?” The word came unbidden. He never called her that before, never called anyone that before. He’d examine it later.
“I’m cold.”
He was out of his chair before she could finish the last syllable. Shock, blood loss, brought on a chill. He got up, dug through the storage compartment under the bed, found another blanket. He spread it over her, all the way to her chin.
Thoughtlessly, he tucked her in, all the way around her body from her feet, up her thighs, under her soft sides, tenderly, oh so tenderly, around her injured shoulder. Her eyes were rapt on his face, her lips slightly parted. Even under her bruises, her cheeks flushed. He stayed leaned over her, studying her nose, the split in her lip. Her eyes (still bright, still perfect). He smoothed a hand down her hair, brushed his thumb against her cheek.
If he was a braver man, he’d tilt up her chin, lean in, and—
“It was a shadow.”
He drew back, blinked hard. Her face was serious, her eyes steady on his. He double checked her pupils, in case of concussion. “What?”
“It was a shadow that bit me. It was dark. I didn’t see it because I fumbled my torch. It came out from behind a corner and grabbed me.”
“You’re in shock,” he said.
But her eyes were sharp, lucid. Boring through him like a drill. She shook her head hard. “No, I’m not.”
“Shadows can’t bite.”
“You’re pretty obtuse for someone so smart.” She looked away from him, eyes hardening. His pulse spiked; panic crept up his spine. He didn’t want to upset her. “How long have you lived in the Valley, man? Look around. Does it really seem that implausible?”
He held her gaze, and thought about the man living in the tower outside of town. He’d seen flashes of him, purple robed and shifty-eyed. Locals said he was a sorcerer. Back then, he’d laughed. He thought of the strange whispering he’d heard inside the rundown old community center, and the creaking moans bubbling up from the sewer grate. How his farmer, before even knowing his last name or his birthday, knew how much he liked wine, and coffee, and all things pickled and brined. How she’d disappear for an entire afternoon and return, scuffed and frazzled, bearing troves of artifacts for the museum and a smile.
The Valley was a wild place. She was a wild thing.
“Okay,” he said. He brought his hand to her cheek, cupped her face. Made her look at him as he nodded, conceding. Her expression softened. Her eyes welled, but tears never fell. He nodded again, vehemently. “I believe you. I do.”
Slowly, he peeled away from her. Rose to his full height, looked at the clock. Well-past four in the morning. He had appointments at 9, calls with his old hospital in Zuzu City; he needed a second opinion on Mr. Mullner’s lung condition.
He needed to sleep. So did she.
“You’re staying a full day, until your electrolytes are up.” She didn’t make a move to argue, just stared at him from her nest. “And you’re still doing all your shots. I meant what I said. I’ll hunt you down.”
“Promise?” Dear Yoba, there it was again, her cheeky little smile.
The word like a shot of whiskey, sent warmth all through him. He tried not to stagger.
“A threat, actually.”
“Good.”
Addled, exhausted, and utterly in love, Harvey finally dropped his gaze and ambled toward the light switch. Flicked if off and plunged them into darkness. The only light between them her EKG. Her heart, steadily beating. “Get some sleep. I’ll be upstairs.”
He turned, pushed the curtain aside.
“Harvey.”
Oh, he could get drunk on that. He turned, looked through the dark, at her.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I’m still cold.”
Sometimes (despite his better judgment, his litany of degrees, his professionalism, his three ounces of common sense) Harvey was brave. Sometimes, he was more of a man than he gave himself credit for.
He padded across the room, to the side of the bed without the machines and the drips. To his farmer. Wordlessly, she made room. Scootching to the corner of the bed.
Wordlessly, he climbed in next to her. He was tall, his limbs long. He arranged himself thoughtfully, mindful of his knees and elbows. His right arm snaking carefully around her shoulder. She pressed into his chest, still cocooned in her blankets, her forehead resting on his collar, her breath tickling his skin. She nestled against him, like she was trying to burrow inside him. (She already had.) He bent his face to her head. Inhaled earth, and sweat, and shampoo, and her. Pressed a kiss to her hair. Then another.
She was asleep before he’d even settled. He doubted she even felt it.
His eyes were heavy, but his heart flew.
Maru found them in the morning. She went looking for Harvey to start her shift and stumbled on them in the exam room. The Farmer, battered and bruised, curled on The Doctor’s chest. The Doctor, on his back, both arms securely tucked around her, breathing deep and slow. Face placid, every worry line smoothed.
Carefully, she stepped out and locked the door behind her. Drew the blind, to the keep the light from pouring in.
Linus came around the time she did, a backpack slung over his shoulder. He glanced around the lobby, frowning as he spoke.
“Morning. Where’s the doctor? I’ve got a delivery for him.”
“He’s not in today,” she said, logging into her computer, pulling up the day’s schedule.
“Huh,” he gave her a measured look. Trying to decide what she knew. He adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “The Farmer accepting visitors? I’ve got something for her.”
“No, sorry, she’s still out. But I’ll give it to her when she wakes up.”
Linus nodded, placed the bag on the counter. Stood there, awkwardly for a moment. “I, uh, just wanted to tell her I watered her crops. Gave the animals some food. Let her know, will you?”
“Of course,” Maru said. He stood there a moment longer, cleared his throat. Gave her a curt nod, then wandered out the door.
She rescheduled the doctor’s phone call. Rebooked his appointments for the next week. When he woke, he’d probably be angry. For a moment at least.
But Maru didn’t much care. The Farmer and the Doctor worked too damn much.
She knew they both needed the rest.