Chapter One

Exposure (n.) An amount of light permitted to fall on light-sensitive material such as film or paper coated with emulsion; the act or process of taking a photograph; harmful effects of cold or other extreme environmental conditions; the revelation of private information.

 

Scott opens his eyes slowly as he steps out of the darkroom. The small lamp on his bedside cabinet provides only a shadowy glow over the flat, and he shuffles toward it with a yawn, finally ready for sleep.

When he’d started renting this place in Camden three years ago, it was meant to be somewhere to crash between jobs, a glorified storage locker with a shower. It’s square and plain, his bed on one side and galley kitchen on the other, decorated only with photos and trinkets from his travels. After the accident, when it became clear he’d be grounded for a few months, he transformed the bathroom by draping a blackout curtain around the door and setting a plank over the bathtub for his chemical trays. There, he can flip on the fan and work for hours, just feet away physically but miles away mentally from his bed, where insomnia and nightmares crowd out any hope of sleep.

His darkroom habit is his only connection to photography these days. He hasn’t picked up his camera since he left the hospital in January; it’s in pieces, after all, his £3,200 digital Canon collecting dust in his cupboard. Scott never did find out who collected it from the scene and sent it along with him in the ambulance. They shouldn’t have bothered. He can’t bring himself to touch the thing, even to throw it out. Instead, he finds solace in the undeveloped film from his 35mm Leica.

Film is reserved for London, family, and home, where there are no publishing deadlines to meet or editors to please. He has compiled quite a collection of undeveloped rolls over the last few years. Being home only a day or two at a time had given him a chance to take pictures but not develop them before he’d be on his way again, so his desk drawer holds a grab bag of birthday parties, impromptu picnics, and London day trips. He never knows what will appear on the long strip of film, but he knows what won’t. There will be no Ukraine, no Kabul, no Delhi; no plane crashes, no war zones, no children dying in poverty.

Last night, the roll he processed had turned out to be all Olivia and Thomas, two years ago at Christmas. Scott’s heart clenched pleasantly when the images appeared, remembering how he and his sister had sprinkled jelly babies and crisps in the garden for reindeer food because Thomas thought that’s what they’d like. Tonight, Scott picks out a few frames to print for Olivia, of their mum filling stockings and Thomas’s astonished reaction to his new toy train. He spends time printing the images, making sure the contrast is perfect. His eyes finally get heavy as he places the last few photographs on the drying rack.

The sky is not yet lightening. Scott picks up his phone from the bedside cabinet to check the time. Thursday, the 19th of May, 4:07 a.m. An appointment reminder lights up, and shit, today is his first session with the new guy Dr Coulter wants him to see.

At least the appointment isn’t until two.

After he crosses the day off his calendar with his black Sharpie (he’s up to day one hundred fifty-nine) and sends a quick goodnight message on WhatsApp, Scott arranges himself in bed, flat on his back with his bad arm propped up on pillows. He’ll get a few hours of sleep after all.

*

The first thing Scott notices when he opens the door marked Dr Jason Andrews is the welcoming light-herbal scent in the air, so different from the antiseptic smell of the other doctors’ offices he’s visited. He removes his sunglasses to a room that feels like the lobby of a spa, with warm tan walls decorated with Japanese prints and sisal rugs on the floors. There is music behind it all, a soft percussion of drum and flute. When he closes the door behind him, he feels far away from the noise and clamour of Stratford.

Behind the reception desk sits a woman, probably about his mum’s age, with a soft apple face and kind eyes. She stands and extends her hand. “Scott?”

“Yes, hello.” Scott offers his left hand instead of his right, and they both chuckle a little, looking down at his splinted arm under his jacket. Transparent moulded plastic holds his arm in an L-shape, and the elastic bandage he wears from his forearm to his shoulder is visible underneath it.

“My name is Monica. It’s lovely to meet you.” She looks him in the eye when she speaks, which catches Scott off guard. “Let’s take you back. Follow me?”

They make their way to a room that is too brightly lit; Scott looks mostly at the floor until his eyes adjust, and Monica turns down the dimmer on the wall.

“Here is some paperwork for you. You’ll see it’s quite involved, but Dr Andrews would like as much detail as possible, so please be thorough. Drop it in the slot outside the door when you’re finished, and he’ll be right with you.”

She leaves him with a pleasant smile, and it takes Scott a minute to get comfortable. The splint makes him take up more space in the chair than he’d thought, so he teeters on the edge, slanting the clipboard on his lap. Fucking forms. If Scott had a pound for every form he’s filled out over the last five months, he could buy himself a bionic arm and be done with it.

The top part is easy, and he fills in his name, address, and contact information.

Referred by: Dr Lance Coulter, Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital

Emergency contact: Olivia Rowe Relationship: sister

He fills out her phone number, wondering what could happen to him in this quiet place that would warrant a call. At its very worst, it could only be an improvement over the last emergency call she’d received.

Occupation: Photojournalist

The word comes easily by habit. But as he crosses his t’s, Scott takes a beat, not sure if he can still properly call himself that. He’s officially off roster at Getty and The Times. “Indefinite leave of absence” was what they’d termed it. But the alternative is to write “Unemployed,” so he lets it lie.

Have you ever been under the care of a doctor of osteopathy? No

Have you ever had a professional massage? No

Do you have any particular goals for this session? (Scott considers writing “to get my doctor off my back” but changes his mind.) Recommended treatment by orthopaedic surgeon

Do you have any difficulty lying on your front, back, or side? Cannot lie on right side (temporarily).

Are you currently under the care of a traditional medical doctor? Yes

Scott lists his primary doctor, his orthopaedic surgeon, his dermatologist, his ophthalmologist, and his ear, nose, and throat doctor. He leaves the burn specialist off the list; she released him almost two months ago. After a moment of debate, he adds his physiotherapist, even though their visit a week ago ended with a shouting match and a slammed door. She’d been frustrated with him, and Scott had been stubborn. He’s not sure he’s going back.

List prescription medications you take currently. (He’d finished the last of the pain meds early on; over-the-counter scar-reducing gel doesn’t count.) None

Are you a smoker? (The answer depends on the day, as well as the continent and the company.) Not often

Do you drink alcohol? (This one is tougher. Scott sighs and stares at the line, weighing his options. He considers leaving this one blank.) Sometimes

Take recreational drugs? No

Please indicate “Y” for “Yes” and “N” for “No” to indicate occurrence of the following conditions. Do you wear contact lenses? Hearing aids? Any known allergies or sensitivities to topical applications? High blood pressure? Diabetes? Epilepsy? Cancer? No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No Pregnancy, no Ulcer, no Abdominal pain or HIV virus.

The momentum takes him, and he almost blows by Serious accident. He scans down a bit further. Should he call it Serious accident or Recent surgery? Or maybe Fractures? He circles Y next to all three.

He hesitates next to Insomnia and Headaches, then circles N next to these as well. This doctor doesn’t need to know everything.

If you are currently experiencing discomfort, tension, or injury, please indicate on the following diagram and describe in detail below.

Scott stares at the line drawing of a genderless human figure, a blank canvas waiting for embellishment. This should be fun. He can’t resist drawing shoulder-length wavy hair on the person’s head, along with his two tattoos, a heart on the shoulder and compass on the forearm. Then he gets down to business.

Scott doesn’t catalogue the ruptured eardrums, the concussion, and the corneal perforation, since they’ve long since healed. The lacerations on his face and neck are gone, too, except for the long, angry line on his jaw. He concentrates on the arm, drawing a line through the upper right humerus. “Compound fracture.” He circles the elbow. “Avulsed radial head.” They’d required multiple surgeries, the last of which had been six weeks ago, to clean up the scar tissue at his elbow. But the contusions on his forearm and the minor wrist sprain have healed, so he draws an arrow toward them with the label “wrist and hand fine!” along with a smiley face. He draws X’s from the shoulder to the forearm and all over the right torso, front and back. “Second-degree burns (scarring).”

That should do it. Gorgeous.

Scott places the finished questionnaire in the slot outside the door, and sees no one in the hall.

Once back inside, he takes in the room. It’s got the organised feel of a doctor’s examination room, but instead of an exam table covered by a paper sheet, there is a massage table in the centre of the room made up with sheets and a blanket. There is a stainless-steel sink in the corner, with real towels instead of paper ones, and next to them, a tray of brown glass vials. A slow cooker is plugged in on the counter next to a jade plant and some crystals, gems, and rocks; in front of them a large white feather rests on a piece of red fabric. Soft music filters from the speakers on the ceiling.

He’s about to read the framed certificates on the wall when there is a knock at the door.

“Hi, Scott. I’m Dr Andrews.” He places a bottle of water on the counter and extends his left hand for Scott to shake as if it’s completely normal. His hand is warm. “You can call me Jason.”

“Hello.”

“I feel like I know you after reading the information Lance sent over.” Dr Andrews gestures down to the packet in his hand. There’s the questionnaire Scott filled out, but there’s a thick file underneath, too, labelled, Rowe, Scott.

A thrum ripples through Scott’s stomach. Shit.

“So. You’ve been through a hell of a lot,” Dr Andrews states, with direct eye contact, just as Monica had done. “I’m glad you decided to come see us.”

“Well, I didn’t think I had much of a choice, to be honest.” Scott tries to lighten the sting with an unenthused chuckle, but that sounds harsh too.

“Understood.” Dr Andrews gives him a nod, glancing down at Scott’s splint, then flips the questionnaire over so Scott’s drawing faces them. It seems strange now, like someone else’s drawing of a person he doesn’t recognise.

“Well, I’ve looked over all of this, and I’m happy to say you’re an excellent candidate for this type of work. As you know, I’m not a traditional medical doctor. I’m an osteopathic physician, so I have a DO after my name instead of an MD. I did go to medical school, and I can write prescriptions like a traditional doctor does, though I’d really rather not. I have additional training in what some call alternative healing paradigms—acupuncture, Reiki, and massage therapy, among some others.”

All this makes perfect sense to Scott because this man looks like no other doctor he’s ever seen. He doesn’t have a stethoscope, or a watch, or even a pen in his pocket like other doctors do. And instead of a white coat, Dr Andrews is dressed in blue trackies, a jumper with the sleeves rolled up, and trainers, like a uni athlete might be. A headband holds his longish hair off his forehead, and light stubble shades his face. Scott counts at least three tattoos on his right forearm: an ocean wave, a hand, and a tree.

“Do you have any questions about what I do?” Dr Andrews asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Dr Coulter said you could help me prevent a frozen shoulder.” What the hell, he’s got my file anyway. “And maybe get my headaches down to a dull roar.”

“Yes. I think we have a great shot at both. Osteopaths believe the body works as an entire system. We can’t treat one area independently of the others. For instance, if you’re in any kind of pain, physical or otherwise, you’re not sleeping. If you’re not sleeping, your immune system, digestion, brain function, they’re all impaired. Not surprising that you’d have headaches and your recovery would suffer. And no sleep means no dreams, which is a whole other story. But there are simple treatments that can help with all of that.”

Scott studies his splint. So he knows about the insomnia. He must know about my eyes and ears too. “All right. Except, I’d prefer no needles today if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine. No needles today.”

“Brilliant.”

“Now let’s have a look at you.” Dr Andrews reaches both hands under Scott’s jaw. “The explosion happened, when? Last December?”

“Five months ago.” Five months, one week, two days, and three hours, give or take, depending on the time zone; technically, Scott had gained five hours flying back to London from Kabul, though he’d lost a day and a half being unconscious.

“And how would you say you’re feeling right now?” Dr Andrews presses his fingertips under Scott’s jawline, then rolls them down the sides of his neck. It tickles a little and makes Scott’s shoulders tense. The doctor examines his skin intently, and Scott feels like a specimen in a Petri dish.

Scott searches for a truth he can tell. “I’m, uh, feeling all right.”

“All right?”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “But my surgeon and my physio think I should be making more progress.”

Dr Andrews raises an eyebrow.

Scott picks his words carefully. “I mean, they think I should be using my arm more than…what I feel comfortable with right now. So.”

“I see. Are you in any pain today?”

“No, it’s more just uncomfortable. Everything feels stiff.” And my skin is scarred. My ears ring, and my eyes don’t always work right. There was a bomb.

“Can I look at your eyes for a minute?”

Scott nods, and the doctor places his thumb under Scott’s eye and pulls down gently to examine the tissues inside.

“Look at that tree over there,” Dr Andrews says, gesturing behind him to a watercolour cherry blossom.

Scott stares, trying to focus. But he can hardly keep his eye open, even in the dim light, and has to concentrate to keep from blinking. It’s a painting, damn it, just look at it. His nose starts to burn and a lump grows in his throat.

“Now this side,” the doctor says quietly, switching eyes while Scott presses his lips together with the effort of focusing across the room. Finally, Dr Andrews picks up the water bottle and unscrews the cap. “Drink some of that, please?”

Scott takes a sip. The doctor waits, and Scott takes a bigger gulp.

“Well done.” Dr Andrews turns to his files on the counter. “Lance filled me in on the circumstances of the accident. I was very sorry to hear about your interpreter. His name was Omran?”

Dr Andrews says it with an “oh” at the beginning, the same way Scott had done before Omran taught him the proper pronunciation. But the fact that he mentions him at all takes Scott by surprise. People don’t talk about it. Scott knows they’re scared of the way he’ll react, or avoiding a topic they’re sure Scott would rather forget. As if he ever could.

“Oom-rahn,” Scott replies. “Omran Saleh.”

“Oom-rahn,” Dr Andrews repeats. He considers Scott curiously. “That must be very difficult for you. That he’s gone. I’m sorry.”

Scott clears his throat. “Thank you.” It’s all he can come up with. His drawing stares up from the counter like a caricature. I’m sorry.

Dr Andrews gestures to the centre of the room. “So, a bit about how this will go. You’ll be on this table, face down at first. Do you think you can handle having your face in this cradle?”

The U-shaped form is covered with a white flannel casing. Scott presses its soft surface. “Yeah, that should work.”

“If it doesn’t, we’ll do something different. The table has an extension we’ll use for your arm, so you’ll be supported there. Only the part of you we’re working on will be exposed. You’ll feel my hands on you sometimes and not at others because some of the work we’ll do doesn’t require physical touch. It might feel like a massage at times, or like physiotherapy at other times. If you’re uncomfortable or in pain, physically or otherwise, at any time, I want you to speak up, all right?”

Physically or otherwise. Scott clenches his jaw, thinking about what other kind of pain there may be. But the doctor looks him straight in the eye again, and it makes Scott feel like he’s ready for this. Scott likes the way this doctor talks, too, crisp and confident, like he’s going to take the wheel and steer them through a storm. He says, “Will do.”

“All right. Now we’ve got to pick an oil for you.” Dr Andrews turns to the tray on the counter and chooses one. “Here’s a blend that might work. Lemon and mint have invigorating properties.”

He twists open the cap on the small brown bottle and holds it under Scott’s nose. It’s bright and astringent, so fresh that it hurts Scott’s brain, and he makes a face.

“Sorry, no,” Scott says with a little chuckle.

“Understood. Let’s try this one. It’s got lavender, more for calming and relaxation.”

This time, the scent is soft, but dusty, like antique perfume. It reminds Scott of his great-aunt Margie, who died when he was little; he was scared of her, and sniffing it makes him uneasy. He shrugs and turns his face away.

“Not that one either. We’ll know it when we find it.” Dr Andrews peruses the oils and chooses another. “Ah, this one might be better, called arnica.” He puts it under Scott’s nose. It’s piney, but gentle, with a hint of orange or grapefruit underneath. It’s like the woods in spring.

Scott makes a happy sound before he can catch himself.

“That’s it,” says Dr Andrews, smiling. “Thought so.”

“Yes,” Scott says. “That’s definitely it.” He wants to take a bath in it, right now, and every day until he’s ninety.

“Now, please disrobe all the way and lie on the table face down, with your face in the cradle. Cover up as best you can. The table is heated, so we can adjust the temperature if we need to. Any questions?”

Scott looks at the table, with the extension right where it should be to support his arm. He takes a shallow breath. “Um, no, I think I’m good.”

“All right. I’ll leave you to it.”

Once the door is shut, Scott kicks off his shoes and returns to the certificates on the wall as he unbuttons his shirt. Bachelor of Science, University of Sheffield. Doctor of Osteopathy, British College of Osteopathic Medicine. Reiki Master, UK Reiki Federation. He skims over several others, wondering how the doctor made the time for all of this schooling when he can’t be much older than Scott.

The flannel sheets are warm when Scott slides between them. It takes an awkward minute to get his splinted arm situated on the table, and he rests his face in the cradle with a few seconds to spare before the soft knock at the door.

“Ready, Scott?”

“Yes, come in.”

The door clicks shut, and there’s the soft creak of the floorboards.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, I think so.” Scott fidgets as Dr Andrews walks around to his injured side.

“Nice colours on your splint. Your kids do that for you?”

Scott lifts his head to see the doctor pointing at the crooked words and bright faces, along with Iron Man and a blue T-Rex.

“Uh, no, that’s my nephew. Thomas. He’s eight.”

Dr Andrews tucks the blanket carefully over Scott’s arm and up to the nape of his neck. “Looks like you’re his superhero.”

“Yeah. When I got home, we explained to him about the accident, and that I was…well, that I caught fire for a bit. At first he was terrified, but then the gross factor won out because, you know, being eight. Anyway, he decided I’m fireproof, and I’m Tony Stark’s British cousin or something. It’s kind of a running joke with us now.”

“Fireproof. I like it.”

An arm slides under Scott’s ankles, lifting them, while a pillow is fit underneath. Dr Andrews adjusts his legs so they rest farther apart, and aaahhh, yes, that’s better, they sink into the table as if they weigh ten stone each.

Dr Andrews tucks the blanket around his feet. “Since you’re face down, I’m going to turn the lights up, all right?”

“No problem.”

“How’s the temperature of the table?”

“It’s good.” Scott forgets about fire, splints, and scars for a minute, amazed at how those few small adjustments could make his body feel balanced and at ease.

“Good. If you’re ready, we’ll start.”

“Ready.” As ever.

Scott waits for some movement, but instead, there is stillness and silence, with Dr Andrews standing at the head of the table. Should something be happening?

After a long moment, Dr Andrews peels the blanket from Scott’s back to rest at his waist. Here it comes. Scott braces for the doctor’s reaction to the pits and streaks of his scars. But if Dr Andrews thinks anything of them, he doesn’t say; there is only the swish of hands rubbing together and the lovely smell of pine and citrus. Scott’s legs get jumpy for a second.

“I’d like you to take three breaths, deep as you can.”

Easy. Scott inhales, and hands press into his back, close on either side of his spine. They are hot, as if he’s been warming them in front of a fire, or holding a hot cup of tea, and they glide back up toward his neck as Scott exhales. They go again, pressing down a bit harder on the inhale and easing up on the exhale. It feels good, no bother to Scott’s skin or shoulder. The third time is slower, the pressure deeper, and it makes Scott cough.

“Water?”

“Nope, sorry about that,” Scott says.

“No apologies, just get that stuff out.” The doctor kneads between Scott’s shoulder blades with the heels of his hands.

“What stuff?”

“Whatever’s in there that needs to come out.”

Next, he feels a forearm slide over the width of his back. It rolls in long strokes like a steamroller forcing the air out, and although Scott tries to stifle the annoying tickle in his throat, he starts to cough again.

“Jeez, sorry.” He cough-chuckles, embarrassed, as Dr Andrews brings him water. Scott shifts as best he can to his good side to take it.

“This is a good start,” Dr Andrews says.

After a few sips the tickle calms down. “I’m not even sick. I don’t get it.”

“It’s okay. When you’re ready we’ll do some more.”

Scott hands him the bottle and gets resettled, taking a breath and clearing his throat.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Scott’s shoulders feel stiff under the pressure of Dr Andrews’s arm, but he sinks slightly deeper into the table. He wonders if he’s coming down with a cold, or if he’s allergic to something in the room. He hopes it’s not the arnica. The smell is comforting and familiar already; he breathes it in, and darkness welcomes him, rich and deep, a perfect place for him to escape to for a bit. A deep purple shape swirls next to another of forest-green. Scott watches them dance, and his face relaxes into the cradle. Soft, he thinks, and free, as they get smaller and bigger, closer, then farther away. Little dots of white light sparkle too. The scene is beautiful and gentle and calms his nerves a bit. He finds that concentrating on it helps his throat keep quiet.

It’s Dr Andrews’s voice that makes the colours drop away; Scott remembers where he is as the blanket is pulled up to cover his shoulders.

“Your hands are cold, Scott. Would you be all right with some warm stones?”

Scott tries not to seem lost. “Um, where?”

“In your hands. Want to feel them first to make sure?”

“Okay.” Warm stones? Scott wonders if he misunderstood.

He hears the clank of the slow cooker lid bumping against the counter, then the rumble of rocks knocking together.

“First one.” Dr Andrews flattens Scott’s good hand gently and places the rock in it. It’s smooth, hot, and exactly the size of his palm. “How does that feel?”

Weird. “Good? I guess?”

“Ok, I’ll wrap it up.” Dr Andrews winds a soft towel around Scott’s hand, binding the stone inside.

“Other side now. Hot rock.”

Heat seeps into Scott’s cold fingers as the doctor wraps the second stone. Now both of his hands are weighted down, and he must look ridiculous, but he feels heavy and tired and warm and taken care of, so he lets go, for a second, of the protection and defence.

The shapes begin to move again in front of his closed eyes. It’s fuzzy at first, like a photograph covered with fog, but colours and lines slowly take the form of a mountain, then a treeline. The sky is a midnight-blue bowl overhead with sparkling stars beginning to shine through. He’s at home here, far away in this remote, wide-open place that shows no evidence of modern life. He’s so tired suddenly, and comfortable in this warm cocoon of a room; he realises he must be falling asleep, that this must be a dream.

No, not now. He doesn’t want to lose the thread of what’s going on in this room. But what happened to the doctor? Scott doesn’t feel his hands anywhere.

“Dr Andrews?”

“Did you go away for a minute?” Dr Andrews answers softly, and Scott is surprised at how close he is, right up next to him on his injured side. He’s covered up to his neck by the blanket, and now there’s a warm weight covering the length of his back.

“I guess I did. What are you doing?”

“Working on your shoulder.” Scott doesn’t feel a thing. No pressure, heat, or movement, but he can hear Dr Andrews’s breathing, deep and regular right beside him. Scott tries to relax his shoulder and make his arm heavy so whatever the doctor is doing can find its way in.

*

Scott isn’t sure how long he’s been resting when he feels cool air on his hand. He makes a fist, trying to hold the heat in.

“Ok, Scott, it’s time for you to turn over.”

Shit.

He’s not ready. He doesn’t want them to be halfway done, doesn’t want to face the room. If he can be dead to the world a little while longer, he can keep the vision of mountains, trees, and stars in his mind’s eye.

“I’m going to lift the blanket, and you can turn toward me. Then I’ll move your arm support around to this side.”

Dr Andrews holds up the blanket like a curtain, but the turn is a rocky manoeuvre, and Scott shifts awkwardly to get into position.

“Ugh. They’ll have to pay you extra,” he jokes, still adjusting as the blanket covers him.

“For what?”

“Hazard pay.” Scott’s legs feel too long, his shoulders too wide, and his arm feels like a clumsy dead weight. He plays the same game he played as a child: Close your eyes. If you can’t see anyone, maybe no one can see you either. At least you don’t see them seeing you.

“Nah, I signed up for this, remember?” Dr Andrews tucks Scott’s arm in. “Good?”

“I’ll be good when this is over.” Scott sounds like a spoiled child, and as soon as it’s out, he regrets it. “I mean, I’ll be good when I’m—” He clears his throat of a tickle. “—back to normal.”

Dr Andrews moves the pillow from under Scott’s ankles to under his knees. “I knew what you meant. I’ll do my best to help you get there, okay? Now let’s do some hip work.” He moves to Scott’s right side, then pulls the blanket off his leg and tucks it around his upper thigh.

“Lifting,” he says, taking hold of Scott’s leg under the calf and at the back of his knee. Scott tries to relax, but he’s afraid Dr Andrews might drop it, or it might slip.

“I’ll just move it back and forth, all right? Easy.”

Scott concentrates on trying to let it go, just enough to feel it relax as the doctor begins to pull it away.

“That’s better, but you can properly let it go. I won’t let it fall.”

They try again, but it’s a stalemate, with Scott stiffening and the doctor unable to move it.

“Okay. You win that round. But I’m not done yet.” He lays Scott’s leg on the table and retucks the blanket around Scott’s hip.

“Why do my legs matter anyway? I thought Dr Coulter sent me here for my shoulder.”

Dr Andrews oils up his hands and starts at Scott’s ankle, then slides up the outside of the leg and up the side of his thigh. “Your injury immobilised one of your limbs, right? The rest of the body compensates in ways you don’t realise. Your legs work harder, and your spine isn’t lined up straight, so your hips, neck, and shoulders are strained.” He changes direction to slide back, then begins again at the ankle, a long smooth roll of warm pressure all the way up. “We’re working the effect of these compensations out, and it will help.”

After the third go, Dr Andrews places his hands on the blanket, feeling through it until he finds Scott’s hip socket. He presses down on it, pushing him into the table. It turns Scott’s lower body to jelly; like magic, the stiff, floundering leg is a docile, rested puddle of muscle and bone. Dr Andrews lifts it easily, and its limp weight moves loose and free.

“Your arm will figure out the body is back to normal, and over time—let’s say a few weeks—it will go back to normal too. So. That worked nicely, don’t you think?” There’s a chipper note of satisfaction in his voice. He covers Scott’s leg and moves to the other. Scott can’t even be bothered at the doctor’s gloating. For now, he’s content with Dr Andrews’s strange work, and he feels fine to lie here, unwound.

After Scott’s other leg gets the same treatment, Dr Andrews walks to the counter and opens a drawer.

“I have a pillow for your eyes if that’s all right.”

Scott clears his throat. “Okay.”

“It’s got some herbs in it, and it’s weighted, to give you a deeper rest.” Dr Andrews places it slowly, the silk brushing Scott’s eyelids. When he lets it go completely, the dark is heavy and absolute, and Scott clears his throat again.

It’s okay, it’s okay. Scott’s arm twitches, and the pillow gains weight, pressing down on his eyes and crushing the lids. It’s okay, but his throat is closing, and his ears are ringing no can’t no; suddenly, Jesus, it’s too heavy and too dark, and he can’t stand it another second.

“Um, no, I can’t…” Scott begins.

The pressure lifts, the darkness gone. Scott takes a breath through his nose, relieved. A hand rests on his shoulder.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” Heat rises in Scott’s face. He is so fucking sick to death of feeling like this. It’s a hateful place to be. “Sorry. I didn’t think it would bother me, but…”

“I’m glad you spoke up. Let’s try something different.”

Dr Andrews’s hands make a soft sound as they rub together. His fingers lightly touch Scott’s temples, then sweep over his forehead making overlapping circles. At first, Scott’s eyes swim, trying to follow, but soon they settle as the pattern repeats. Out and back, circle, circle. Scott’s knotted brows go slack, the gentle and predictable pressure making him sigh. Better.

With his next breath, the mountains slide into focus. They strike up in deep purple, with the silhouettes of tall evergreens against a sky that’s lit with more stars than he’s ever seen. The place is at once strange yet deeply familiar, and Scott inhales the cool air tinged with crushed leaves and burning wood. Somehow, he knows there is a warm fire glowing behind him. He turns to look, but Dr Andrews’s voice draws him back, and the scene fades.

“I’m sorry?” Scott blinks his eyes open, embarrassed.

“I just asked if you had any questions.”

Scott wishes he still had the hot rocks in his hands to steady himself. “I saw your feather on the counter. What’s it for?”

“It’s for sweeping away energy that’s stuck.”

“Stuck?”

Dr Andrews rubs small circles at Scott’s temples. “Sometimes it gets loose but doesn’t want to leave, so we have to help it go.”

“What kind of energy?”

“Could be pain, could be fear. Could be anger. Sometimes we hold on to whatever it is for so long, it becomes part of us. Some people believe that’s where disease comes from.”

“Where does it go?”

“I’m not sure, exactly.” A breath. “We tell it to go somewhere where it can do some good.”

Scott thinks about this, the pain and guilt knitting itself into the newly thatched fibres of his bones, fear and confusion weaving through the smooth tissues of his muscles. He pictures a purplish-red blob of it dislodged with nowhere to go, evicted. Lost.

He closes his eyes again. His pain is a part of him now, as much as his scars are. “I don’t…I don’t think we should do that. On me.”

“We won’t.” Dr Andrews’s fingertips are warm, moving back over Scott’s forehead to massage the tense spot between his eyebrows. “Not until you’re ready.”

*

“Okay, Scott, we’re done.” Dr Andrews’s voice is gentle, and his hand rests on Scott’s good shoulder. “Take your time getting up. There’s more water on the counter. Finish it as you’re getting dressed, all right?”

Scott nods, keeping his eyes closed. “Okay.” He clears his throat, the little tickle making him swallow.

“If you want to rinse off, there’s a shower in that bathroom. When you’re ready, come to my office, the next room to the right. We’ll talk about our next steps.” With that, Dr Andrews’s footsteps retreat, the dimmer on the wall clicks faintly, and the door is opened and shut.

Scott rolls slowly to his side but makes no move to get up. He knows he won’t shower; he would have to take his splint and elastic bandage off, and the thought of washing away the soft sheen of oil from his skin seems wasteful and unkind. He knows he’s got to shore up, gather himself, and stand up on his own feet.

He takes a few last moments of comfort in the softness and heat of Dr Andrews’s table. Even without the doctor here, the room feels curiously charged, filled with strange tools, soft light, and quiet humming energy.

Just one more minute.

*

Dr Andrews’s door is open. A bookshelf takes up the wall behind his desk, with what must be a hundred books, interspersed with framed photographs and unusual pieces of rock and stone. One photo shows a sleek grey cat with a red collar and bell; in another, a dressed-up, laughing Dr Andrews is embraced by a blond man kissing his cheek.

The doctor leans on his desk, tapping on a tablet, with Scott’s file beside him. “Your colour’s better,” he says when Scott approaches. “And your posture. How do you feel?”

“I feel good. Better. I mean…I thought I felt all right when I came, but I feel better now. Like, loose.”

Dr Andrews nods with a smile. “I thought so. Did you finish your water?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Here’s another.” The doctor hands Scott a new bottle, his serious tone leaving no room for arguments. “Ready for a recap?” He gestures to the guest chair, but Scott doesn’t feel like sitting. His legs feel strong under him.

“First, you’re dehydrated. Priority number one is water.” He begins to write on a prescription pad. “We stirred up toxins in your body, and water will help flush them out.” He rips the sheet off the pad and hands it to Scott.

H20 Th 1L, Fr–Mo 3L

“That means another litre yet today, and three litres each day after. Understand? That means you’ll have water with you at all times. For the next five days.”

Scott doesn’t know what “toxins” might mean, and is fine being spared the details. “If I drink all that, I’ll be spending the next five days in the loo.”

“Quite so.”

“I thought you wanted me to sleep?”

“Rehydration first. Once your fluid levels are back, you’ll have a better shot at sleep. Your body needs to know that it’s not in the desert anymore.”

At that, Scott’s eyes prickle. He folds the paper and pinches the crease.

“Second is your diet.” Dr Andrews lets him off easy, changing the subject. “I’d like you to try to eat mostly from this list, if you can, for the next few weeks.”

The sheet is titled “Foods for Wellness: Anti-Inflammatory.” Scott skims it and spots salmon, brown rice, and organic yoghurt. He also sees berries, whole grains, ginger, and turmeric. Right now, his pantry has tinned spaghetti hoops and baked beans, along with three or four eggs. He’s out of practice making meals from scratch as he’s found it’s harder with one arm immobile, but the list looks simple enough. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Do your best with it. One more thing and I’ll let you go. Do your hands and feet feel cold most of the time, or just today?”

“All the time, I’d say. Especially at night.”

“Right. So that’s a symptom of what I call a ‘shock body.’ Your blood is pulling in from your extremities to the core, where all your vital organs are. It’s an old defence mechanism we haven’t evolved out of yet, meant to keep us alive in times of stress. Do you have a heated blanket?”

Good lord. He’s lucky he has clean sheets and a pillow. “Really? It’s spring.”

“It might be spring out there…” Dr Andrews gestures to the window. “But your body isn’t getting that message. It’s doing its own thing as best it can. Our job is to remind it that it’s not in danger. For now, I’d like you to sleep on an electric underblanket set on medium, with socks on.” Scott’s doubtful expression doesn’t go unnoticed by the doctor. “Should I write out a script for that too?”

Scott glances down at the desk where the prescription pad lies, and his eyes stop on a framed photo. A group of lads in football gear celebrate with trophies in hand, and a younger, smiling Dr Andrews is propped up on their shoulders.

“Um, no, I’ll get one on the way home.” Scott considers the doctor, trying to see the football hero underneath the stubble and serious talk.

“So, can we see you back on Monday?”

Scott’s got an appointment with Dr Coulter on Monday morning, and he could come here after that. But. “Er, I…I suppose so.”

Scott feels better, stronger on his feet than he has in a while. But all this about alignments. Energies. Shock. Feathers and stones and fiery-hot hands and, well… It’s all a bit woo-woo, now, isn’t it? And what is it about this place that makes me cough? There’s an itchy, annoying lump in his throat that water doesn’t fix.

Dr Andrews offers him an understanding smile. “Not sure?”

“Maybe I could see how I feel, you know? In a few days? And then let you know.” Scott tries to slide out of this gracefully, in a way that won’t offend.

“All right. I’ll put you down, and we’ll see what happens. Next Monday, same time.”

Scott nods and raises his hand to cover a cough that starts small but grows bigger with each breath. A water bottle is placed in his hand, and Scott takes a swig. “Damn, am I going to cough up a lung or something?”

“Hope not. Then we’d have to add a pulmonologist to your list. You don’t have one of those yet, right?”

Scott clears his throat and swallows. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Dr Andrews studies him a bit, then walks to the other side of the room where he opens a cupboard door.

“Here. I’ll add this to your bill.” He hands Scott a small brown vial. Arnica.

“Thank you.” Scott slips it into his jacket pocket along with his papers, then pulls the jacket on, laying the front over his splint. “I’ll let you know about next time.”

“Remember your prescription, about the water.”

They shake hands, lefties again, but Scott doesn’t meet the doctor’s eyes. “Got it.”

Scott manages a wave at Monica as he walks through reception.

She says, “Have a good day, Scott” as he passes, but his jaw is clenched too tightly to answer.

He pulls on his sunglasses against the mid-afternoon light of Forest Lane. It’s too bright, too noisy, and he pulls his jacket around him, hunkering down against a cool breeze that may as well be a wintry gale. In his pocket, he finds the hard vial of oil. He grasps it tightly and doesn’t let go until he gets his wallet out for the tube.

*

“Dunno, Liv, it was sort of…weird?” Scott puts his phone on speaker as he pulls his seldom-used rice cooker down off the top cupboard shelf. He’s making rice with ginger, the way he’d learned in Thailand. He’ll poach an egg to go alongside it and, voila, supper.

“Okay, weird-good or weird-creepy?”

“No, not weird-creepy. Weird-new? Weird-different.” Scott ponders a minute more. “It was weird-nice, I think.” He takes a drink of water, his third glass since he returned home.

“Hmm, that’s a switch,” Olivia says, her voice bright. “What’s nice about it?”

He put hot rocks in my hands. There was a pillow under my knees that made my back feel better. He said Omran’s name. But all of that feels private, and anyway, so much of it seems a bit silly, now, looking back at it. A pillow for my eyes? A sweeping feather? After his tube ride home to Camden, Scott had emerged from the underground on autopilot, ducking into the store with his list in hand and the darkroom on his mind.

But the solid bullet of oil sits heavy in his pocket, like a relic from a lost civilization, or an artefact from across time.

“His place is nice, you know, comfortable.” Scott clears his throat. “And he’s different from the other doctors. He really listens.” Scott realises he probably said all of four sentences to Dr Andrews. But still.

“I like him already. What did he say about how you’re doing?”

Scott measures out the rice and pours it into the cooker. “He said we had a good start, but…” He cringes. “He wants me to take better care of myself.” He eyes the giant Argos bag he’d dropped next to the bed. It holds a new heated blanket along with the set of flannel sheets he’d sprung for.

“Ah,” Olivia says after a pause, the I told you so unspoken. “Are you going back?”

“Not sure. Might see how I feel, you know, after a few days? Dr Coulter wants me to go, so.” And he has this soft, warm table. I went somewhere while I was on it. Somewhere lovely. Scott sees the night-time landscape in his memory: there was a valley, with a forest and a fire, under a sky of pinpoint stars. He’d like to slip back to that place, to lie on the cool grass and look up at the constellations that seem to see him too.

“Well, might as well make Dr Coulter happy, hmm?”

“Ha.”

“Seriously, go. It’s a win for you and a win for Dr Coulter. And I bet it’s a win for the massage guy too.”

“He’s not a massage guy. He’s a doctor. Very professional. Lots of fancy diplomas on the walls.” Scott squints at the measuring line on the side of the rice cooker and turns on the tap.

“As it should be,” Olivia says primly. “Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy seeing you in his doorway again. You’re a tall drink of water, you know.”

Scott bites his lip. “Right. More like damaged goods.” The rice cooker’s lid slams more loudly than he intended.

“God, don’t say that! You’re on the mend, on your way to good as new. Any man would give his right ball to be with you.”

“We both know one that wouldn’t.”

Olivia’s sigh is exasperated. “Patrick was a self-centred twat who couldn’t see farther than the next pretty picture you took of him. And that was before you got hurt.”

She’s right, of course. With Patrick there were pretty pictures, witty texts, and friends-with-benefits sex, not necessarily in that order. Scott’s quite sure the sex was real; apparently, the “friends” part was not. “Maybe. But he was my self-centred twat.”

“Until it got rough, and he bailed. You know you deserve better than that, right?”

Scott looks up at the ceiling, saying nothing.

“Right,” she answers for him. “He’s out there, Scott. You just haven’t found him yet. But when you do, he’s going to be batshit mad over you, scars and all.”

“Because dudes dig scars, you keep saying.” He coughs and takes another drink, pushing the tickle down.

“Because it’s the truth, damn it. I always tell you the truth. Mostly.”

“I know you do.” Scott plugs in the cooker and returns the phone to his ear. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got stuff to chop. Give the T-man a hug for me?”

“Okay, babe. You have everything you need? You sound like you’re getting sick.”

“Nah, I’m doing good. Really.”

“All right, you have a good night, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“‘Kay. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Scott trades the phone for a vegetable peeler and the ginger root. It takes a few tries to get the angle right, but once he braces the root against the cutting board, he can pare the papery skin from the flesh with the peeler so he doesn’t slice his fingers. He leans down to open the drawer for the grater when the ginger’s sharp scent reaches his nose.

It’s a smell he loves that brings to mind Bangkok’s brightly flavoured food cart snacks washed down with cold beer; this time it catches him sideways and turns his stomach.

Okay, it’s okay, but no, all at once it’s not, and he turns away from the counter, a clammy sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Ugh, shit,” Scott mumbles, turning on the tap. He closes his eyes as he splashes water on his face, trying to take deep breaths in through his nose. Instead, he coughs dry barks that feel like straw in his throat. “No, don’t be sick, don’t be sick, don’t be sick.” He holds his forehead in his hand, spits once, and braces against the nauseous waves. A few more breaths get him over the worst of it, and minutes later, it’s dissolved into something he can swallow down and shake out through the trembling in his hands.

The episode wears him out; he’s suddenly so tired he can turn off the tap but can’t pick up the ginger from the floor. In the far corner of the flat his unmade bed looks like salvation, and he makes his way over on unsteady legs. He needs to close his eyes and curl up for a bit, just long enough to get his strength back and stop shaking.

*

In Scott’s dream, he’s digging in the ground with his hands in the middle of a desert field. It’s easy work at first, though he’s thirsty and the sun is hot on his back. Soon the sand gives way to reddish clay that coats his fingers like mud. He starts to sweat.

Footsteps come closer, and Scott looks up to see a young Dr Andrews, looking like the picture at his office. He wears his footie kit and juggles a ball between his feet. “Let’s play,” he offers easily, flipping his longish fringe with a tilt of his head.

Scott’s suddenly got a shovel in his hand, and he’s standing in the hole three feet deep. “This isn’t a game,” he says, frustrated. “It’s hard.”

“Nah, it is just a game. But you have to stop digging.”

The clay clods up like cement, and Scott can hardly lift the next shovelful. Now what? I’ll never get this done. The hole shifts underneath him, and he’s swallowed so deep he can’t see the surface. He might not be able to breathe much longer, and he’s scared he might cry; once he starts, he’ll have no idea how to stop.

“Put the shovel down!” Jason calls from above. “Stop digging!”

Scott looks up, searching sightlessly for him. “Can you see me, Jason? Can you—?” His right arm is stuck to his side somehow, stiff and shrunken, so he scrabbles at the dark walls with his left, but it’s no use. He can’t climb up.

“I’m coming, wait, I’m coming—”

*

Scott wakes up groggy in twisted sheets damp with sweat. The details of the dream evaporate as he sits up, trying to place himself. Through the window is the black sky of late night; his room is lit only by the kitchen lamp, and Scott smells the nutty aroma of cooked rice. He shakes off the last of that dark, suffocating place as he gets up with the nagging feeling of a puzzle left unfinished.

The cooker has turned itself off. He shovels up a sticky clump of rice and swallows it, distracted. Something is different here, but he’s not sure what. His head feels heavy and his ears are ringing, but that’s nothing new; he turns to look around the flat, but sees nothing that explains this unsettled feeling. He rubs his hand over his face as two thoughts tangle for his attention: a shower, then the darkroom.

Scott slips off his shirt and catches a whiff of his skin as it’s exposed. It’s at once so new and so familiar, his sweat mixed with pine and bergamot. Amica? Arinca? Where is it, God, where did I put it? He pats his pocket and brings out the little brown bottle with its black cap and green label. Arnica. A chuckle escapes him as he opens it, feeling the relief of a tiny treasure found. It brings him right back to that room across the city, where he let go of his body and mind for a time. The place where he’d found the night valley. This may be it, what he’s forgotten, or at least this might help him remember it again.

The abandoned Argos bag, now half-buried at the foot of the bed, stares back at him with the heated blanket still inside. Making the bed has never been his favourite task, even when he had two healthy arms to do it with, but for now, his shower will have to wait. He sets the bottle on his bedside cabinet with care and begins to strip the sheets.