Chapter Two

Shutter (n.) A device that allows light to pass for a determined period of time, exposing photographic film, plate, or light-sensitive electronic sensor to light in order to capture a permanent image of a scene. (v.) to furnish or close with shutters; to cease operations or shut down.

 

When Scott returns to Dr Andrews’s office Monday afternoon, Monica greets him with a warm smile. She looks down at his injured arm, which is missing its bulky splint and actually fits inside his jacket sleeve.

“Congratulations! How do you feel?” she asks, beaming.

Scott’s “great, thanks” falls flat in the face of her excitement. He considers moving his arm around to show her how mobile it is with the new flexible fabric brace he got at Dr Coulter’s this morning. But he tucks it close to his body instead, his other arm protectively layered over it. He smiles for her as they walk to the treatment room, but it feels like he’s slapping a happy-face sticker on, and he waits until she’s gone to dim the lights a bit more.

He opens the slow cooker, curious about Dr Andrews’s rocks. They’re smooth and plain, black or dun-grey in three sizes, stacked up in hills. Somehow, he’d thought they’d be shiny, or marbled in pretty colours, and he replaces the lid, disappointed. He considers turning off the music, a festive guitar that feels insulting. A thought creeps in that coming back here may have been a mistake.

There are a few crisp knocks before Dr Andrews breezes in with his files and tablet, extending his left hand for Scott to shake. His whiskers are a bit longer today, but his hair is the same, pulled back off his forehead with a thin red headband.

“Monica said you have news?”

“Yeah, big news.” Scott extends his arm. He remembers how it looked this morning, naked under Dr Coulter’s bright office lights. Scott wasn’t surprised by the lack of muscle tone and the scaly, discoloured skin; he sees it all, fleetingly, whenever he showers. It’s streaked and weirdly shiny in places, but he’ll get used to it in time. After all, it is what’s owed, isn’t it?

“Nice! That movement must feel good.” Dr Andrews’s smiling eyes look into Scott’s expectantly.

Scott doesn’t answer right away. He’d worn his splint like armour. It had protected him for so long with its hard, unyielding shape, and its colourful messages scrawled in permanent marker. Scott feels too light without it, exposed, and it feels wrong to be this mobile. He’d tried to tell Dr Coulter so, but his arguments had fallen on deaf ears.

He settles on something close to the truth. “I’m…still getting used to it, I guess. I’m supposed to wear this most of the day, with short breaks where I can take it off.”

Dr Andrews nods. “And limited activity, yeah? No heavy lifting?”

“For a few more weeks. And I have an appointment with my new physio tomorrow, so.”

“Excellent.” Dr Andrews raises his eyebrows excitedly and rubs his hands together. “So it’s up to you. Should we work with your brace on or off?”

The thought of taking it off and leaving his arm free for Dr Andrews to see and touch is unbearable. “I’ll leave it on, thanks.”

“All right.” Dr Andrews nods as he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. “And how are you feeling otherwise? Any pain?” He touches the skin at Scott’s jawline, skimming over the slightly raised line of his scar, making it difficult for Scott to think.

“Um…no, no pain.” Nothing an ibuprofen he’d popped on the way here couldn’t fix.

“Drop your jaw open for me.”

Scott’s mouth shifts, only opening a crack.

“That feels tighter to me than last time. Can you do this?” Dr Andrews opens his own mouth and loosely moves his jaw from side to side.

Scott looks away to focus. After a breath, his jaw unlocks and he can stretch it out and down, but not without an ache in his cheeks. Dr Andrews winces as he continues to touch him there.

“Pain now?”

“Not bad,” Scott replies.

“Side to side now,” Dr Andrews directs, and Scott tries his best, feeling much like the Tin Man in need of an oil can. The doctor’s fingers move to the hollow under Scott’s ears. “And what about that cough?”

Scott hesitates. “Uh, it comes and goes.” Just this morning, he’d had a bout of it at Dr Coulter’s. “Better keep an eye on that,” he’d said, offhand.

“Look at that tree for me. When do you notice it most?”

Scott stares across the room with a little breath to bolster him. He feels the prick of tears straight away when Dr Andrews studies the tissues in his eyes. “Hmm?”

“When’s your cough the worst?”

“I guess it’s bad when I wake up, and again at night?” Scott sniffs and clears his throat. The tree is getting blurry, and the exertion of his focus causes a tear to escape. Seriously? Shit.

“Right. Could be some congestion. Or something else, we’ll see. Your eyes look much better.” Dr Andrews offers him the tissue box. “You’ve been drinking your water. Well done.”

“Ugh…sorry.” Scott forces out a thick chuckle as he wipes his eyes.

“For what? Tears? Pssh.” Dr Andrews shakes his head. “Never apologise for tears. They’re a good sign.”

Sign of what? But Scott doesn’t ask; he presses his lips together and tosses the tissue into the bin.

Dr Andrews takes Scott’s hands and squeezes his fingers from their bases to tips, then turns each one over to examine his palms. Scott had thought his hands felt fine, but now that they’re held in the doctor’s warm ones, it’s clear he’s just used to them being cold.

“And how about the heated blanket?”

“It’s good. It helps.” He has actually had two nights in a row of decent sleep, almost six hours each. His nightmares have turned into fuzzy movies of himself in cars that never arrive at a destination or planes that never touch down. His body might be rested, but the dreams leave his mind scattered and spent.

Dr Andrews lets him go with a little smile. “Still shocky, but better. Let’s get ready for round two. Arnica again today?”

“Yeah, arnica’s good.”

The thing is, there’s a place I went last time? I want to get back there. I thought I could on my own. But I don’t know how.

Scott hasn’t seen the dark valley with its sentry trees and kind firelight since he’d dropped into it here the other day, but it hasn’t been for lack of trying. Perhaps it was a delusion, a side effect of his chronic lack of sleep and Dr Andrews’s warm table. But it had been so real. He’d recognised it from the inside out. He was different there; he had felt curious again, like there was something to discover. There had been no guilt, no fear, no friends lost, or bodies gone wrong.

“I think today should be a deep shoulders day. We’ll work on those first, and we’ll see where that leaves your jaw. What do you think?”

The words “deep” and “shoulders” together make Scott’s fingers tighten around his brace. He’d like to say no, they can’t possibly, but when Dr Andrews looks at him, rubbing his hands together like he’s ready to tackle it, Scott finds he can’t disappoint him.

“All right,” Scott says, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Dr Andrews picks up Scott’s files and heads for the door. “Start face down. I’ll be back.”

“Dr Andrews?”

“It’s Jason.” He spins, and Scott feels a flicker of recognition at that name, a comfort in it from somewhere that flashes by and then is gone.

“No needles.” Scott is shocked at his tone, but the events of the day are starting to get the better of him, and he’s got to draw a line.

“No needles,” Dr Andrews agrees. “Just stones.”

*

When Dr Andrews finally stands still at the head of the table and takes a breath, Scott is more comfortable than he’s been in four days. He’s warm under the flannel sheet, the pillow under his ankles lifting his feet so that his thighs feel heavy and his shoulders are relaxed. Even his arm is supported at an easy angle. But his eyes are jumpy in the face cradle, blinking and unable to rest.

“Something’s still off,” Dr Andrews says.

Scott looks down through the face cradle. That jangly guitar is about to drive him mad, too many notes that never hang together. It’s the music.

“One sec.” The doctor’s feet disappear as he turns to the counter. A click and a hum and the plucky strings fade, taking with them the flurried energy of their preparations. A slow bass drumbeat begins, backed with long, low notes that swell subtly and overlap.

Harp? No, cello. Scott lets his eyes slip closed. His next breath is longer, and his hips sink deeper into the table.

“Better,” Dr Andrews says.

He is close enough that Scott can hear his steady breathing. He wonders if Dr Andrews might consider doing nothing with him today. Maybe he could just stand there like a sentinel, watching over him as Scott’s head gets heavier in the cradle and his heartbeat slows. Maybe today, the doctor could just let him be.

No such luck; Dr Andrews’s voice is a low whisper when he speaks, as if he doesn’t want to break in. “We’ll warm you up first this time, all right?”

“All right.”

The doctor folds the blanket down to Scott’s waist and lays a towel over his back.

“Heat pack. Tell me if it’s too hot.”

A warm, weighted pad covers his back completely. Its heat is surprisingly pleasant; Scott’s eyes go soft in their sockets when the blanket is tucked in around him. He clears his throat. “Is it okay if I start to sweat?”

“Sweating’s good, burning’s not. Need some water?” Dr Andrews walks away again, and the cooker’s lid clatters against the counter.

“No, I’m good.”

“Hot rock,” Dr Andrews says as he places the stone in his palm. “Is that okay?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Good. We’ll do your feet this time too.” Dr Andrews presses Scott’s fingers around the rock and swaddles it tight. The lovely balsam scent of arnica wafts around them, green and round and welcoming; it wakes up the thought of the valley, and Scott follows it, searching behind his eyes. But nothing comes, even after both of his hands and feet are wrapped with rocks, and he lets the effort dissolve away.

“We’ll let those work on you for a bit,” Dr Andrews says, stepping away from the table.

With Dr Andrews gone, Scott feels unmoored, as though a rope’s been cut, and he’s floating on his own in the middle of the room. He figures this is one of those times Dr Andrews had mentioned, when Scott wouldn’t feel his hands on him, though they’d be working just the same. It strikes him as absurd, suddenly, that three hours ago, he was in Dr Coulter’s cold office filled with stainless-steel instruments and ultrasound imaging machines. Now he’s gone round a hundred and eighty degrees, well wrapped up and baking like a mince pie, treated with nothing more than warm sheets, hot rocks, and a pair of hands. But Dr Andrews has all those papers on his wall, so he’s got to know what the hell he’s doing, right? Eight certificates from universities and societies, but not a doctor’s instrument anywhere. And he doesn’t even want to be called “doctor,” it’s “Jason.”

When Scott thinks of the name, he doesn’t see the doctor with his patient files and office crowded with books. He sees the young lad in the black-and-white photo, scooped up on his mates’ shoulders, smiling into the sun.

Jason.

“Hmm?” The swish of Dr Andrews’s trackies comes closer, and Scott opens his eyes; shit, I said that out loud?

“Uh, just…I’m ready to start if you are.”

The doctor’s hands settle on Scott’s shoulders, one to a side. They don’t move at first, just rest, letting the rise and fall of Scott’s breathing lift and lower them.

“Right,” Dr Andrews says, “let’s give it a go.”

He pushes down through the layers on Scott’s back in a walking motion, enough for Scott to roll a bit from side to side. The heat of the pad seeps into his muscles, making his shoulders feel heavy, and he breathes comfortably in tandem with the pressure. His mind wanders to the valley again. He tries to build the place from the patches he remembers from last time: sky splashed with stars, mountains covered with tall trees in silhouette, the pinion smell of wood smoke, and the mellow glow of fire. There had been a bird flying around above, too, not one he could see with his eyes, but one he’d felt with…with what? He’d just known it was there. But now, all he sees is an empty expanse of black. He opens his eyes with a sigh.

“All right?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Good. Let’s see where we are.” Dr Andrews peels off Scott’s layers one by one, leaving his torso and arms uncovered. When the air hits his hot skin, the cool is a welcome relief.

“You need to tell me if anything hurts,” Dr Andrews reminds him.

Scott hears the familiar swish of his fingers. The velvet, earthy sound of the cello seems suddenly alien and ominous, and Scott hums along with a low note in an attempt to tuck down a little stab of nerves. He grips his rocks a bit tighter.

Dr Andrews’s hands cover his shoulder blades and push down in a long stroke all the way to the bottom of Scott’s ribs. Easy, just like last time. Scott settles in, breathing smoothly. He loosens his grip on the stones as the movement repeats, his muscles feeling warm and pliant. It’s nice, this give and take they fall into, and Scott catches a glimpse of why Dr Andrews uses the word “we” when he explains what work they’ll do.

“A little deeper this time, left side first.” Dr Andrews breathes smoothly too; Scott can hear the air against his throat. The pressure now feels more concentrated, as if he’s using the heels of his hands rather than his fingers. “Now the right.”

The stroke on Scott’s injured side is milder than on the left. The doctor’s hands lift after a few seconds of gentle pressure. They push back more deeply on the first side, forcing a huff out of Scott’s lung, but barely register any pressure on the right. After the third time of this uneven back-and-forth, Scott feels strangely cheated.

His eyes pop open, alert with challenge. “You can do that harder if you want. It’s all right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, the other side too. I’m not that fragile.”

“Agreed. Here we go. Left side.”

Scott inhales. He watches the doctor take a step back with one foot, as though he’s trying to get leverage. This is going to be good.

Dr Andrews takes a breath, then pushes down on Scott’s good shoulder. It’s pleasant for a second, like the pressure of a friendly hug. But then it gets more forceful, as if the friend has morphed into an MMA fighter with the hug becoming a pin to the mat. Scott exhales with a grunt as the doctor’s hands push down over his ribs in a steady, heavy stroke, and Scott hears a muffled pop from somewhere along his spine.

“You good?” Dr Andrews asks.

“Yeah.” Scott is sweating for real now; it’s hot, and he feels here all of a sudden, plugged in, alive in his body. A tingle buzzes over the surface of his skin, cool and hot at the same time, that chases away the drowsy fog in his mind.

“Other side now. Try not to let your thighs tense up, okay?”

Scott hadn’t realised it, but his legs are stiff under the blanket, so he wriggles around to slacken them. “Okay, ready.”

Dr Andrews shifts to the opposite front leg. He moves his outspread hand back and forth over Scott’s shoulder blade with a gentle rubbing motion that lulls Scott into closing his eyes. A fluttering like a bird’s wings breaks through the black as the movement stops, and after a beat, the whole right side of his torso presses into the table under the full force of the doctor’s hands. They knead almost through his shoulder blade and down his back. There is another dull pop as the first points of light burn through the dark in front of Scott’s eyes.

“Still good?”

Scott watches as the dots get brighter and the void of black turns a purplish-blue. The mountains take shape against the sky, and the tops of the trees come into focus. The whole valley materialises out of the darkness as if it’s an image appearing on paper in the darkroom.

Oh my God, here I am. This is it.

“Mm hmm,” Scott manages, though he can’t remember the question because the constellations are pricking light in showy patterns across the dark. Soon the sky is full of them, close enough to touch. This isn’t a still picture, like a photograph. It’s a place. Or maybe a time. The fire is behind him, he knows, though he can’t feel its heat or hear the crack and pop of its burn. It’s like watching himself in a movie; he can’t hear the night sounds or feel the cool grass underfoot, but he knows they are real just the same.

“Again?”

“Yeah, yes.” Not asleep, not dreaming, the doctor is talking to me, and I’m talking back. Jason’s hands are on Scott’s shoulders, and Jason’s voice is in his ears, but Scott is in the valley too. He looks out at the trees with their tallest branches profiled against the sky. Somewhere out there is an owl looking back at him, he is sure of it.

Jason works at his good side in a smooth, forceful movement that compresses Scott’s ribs and draws out his spine while Scott watches the other world playing on the screen inside his mind. He’s not sure he’s breathing, not sure of much anymore, except that he’s meant to be here. There is something here only for him, something calling out to be found.

He turns toward the fire.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Don’t forget to breathe, okay?”

Yes, breathe into this. Jason’s strong hands push on, and Scott’s muscles are supple underneath them, as if accepting an invitation. The fire should terrify him, but it holds no threat. It is strikingly beautiful, glowing and alive in orange and yellow and feathery bits of green and blue that lick and climb. It’s made of light. And power. And something else. Scott can’t retreat from it, can’t even look away. He steps closer and feels no heat, only hope. The winking stars seem to look down on him with wonder. The flames are so close now. He takes one last step.

“This might get uncomfortable, so tell me if I need to stop.”

Jason’s voice pulls Scott back, and he jolts on the table with a spasm in his legs. Scott coughs before he can stop it, the night valley receding into the darkness.

“Sorry, did I scare you?”

The cough is enough to send Jason for water, and Scott rolls to his side to drink it down.

“No, I was just…” How am I meant to square this up? “…really relaxed, I guess.” The fire was glorious with its glowing colour and energy. He’d been drawn to it, which is truly mad, considering, and he’d been about to, well, fall in.

“Yeah, your traps and lats are nice and loose. Well done. I’ll take your rocks, and you can turn over.”

The usual ache in Scott’s shoulder has mellowed, and he finds he can easily manage a half-graceful twist to get onto his back. As he goes, he notices that Jason has taken off his jumper, leaving him in a short-sleeved T-shirt. Scott’s eyes fall to the doctor’s forearm, where his simply designed tree tattoo spreads its delicate branches from a slim trunk.

“Let me know if you want more heat under your shoulders.” Jason adjusts the pillow under Scott’s knees and tucks him in.

Maybe it was the pressure or the heat, or maybe it was being on the receiving end of the doctor’s real strength, but Scott feels his blood circulating with an almost audible buzz, pulsing everywhere through his veins in a new way. His arm especially, encased in the fabric brace, feels full where it had been hollow. He remembers gripping it defensively before he lay down, grateful for the little bit of protection it gave him, but now the brace feels heavy and uncomfortably tight, and he can’t stand it another minute.

He raises it like he’s asking a question in class. “I want to take this off, okay?”

“Yeah, let’s. Here, I’ll do it. Just lie there.” Jason holds Scott’s forearm still as he separates each Velcro strip with a satisfying rip. The brace opens, and Scott’s arm slides out, and he can’t help but let out a little groan of relief.

“Want to sit up a minute? Move it around a bit?”

Whew, yes, it wants to bend, shake, roll, and flex; Scott sits up and does it all, letting the blankets fall to his lap while Jason puts his brace on the counter.

“Better?”

Scott runs his good hand through his hair as he straightens and twists the other arm. “Yeah. Felt like it was suffocating.”

“We can unwrap it if you want. If it’s too hot?”

“Nope, this is good.”

Scott likes the lighter cover of the elastic bandage and the delicious heaviness in his muscles. He makes a fist with his hand and looks at it curiously, as if for the first time, studying the flat, square nails and the veins visible under the skin. He flexes and releases it a few times and gives his arm one last shake from the shoulder. It feels like it’s part of him again, connected, after a long time gone.

The relief makes him brave enough to say it. “Feels like it’s mine again, you know?”

“You up for working on it a bit? Your jaw was next, but it would help if we could get this in the mix.”

Scott doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

*

“Hmm. Stubborn.”

Scott almost missed it, Jason said it so softly. “What is?”

“In your file, it shows…” Jason begins, then trails off, frustrated. His hot hand presses the shoulder joint where the elastic bandage starts. He holds Scott’s wrist with his other hand, like he’s trying to make a loop circuit. He’s been at it for a few minutes now, just holding Scott’s arm at both ends. Scott doesn’t think anything is happening; the knotted look on Jason’s face says he doesn’t think so either.

“They put pins in here, right? To stabilise the fracture?”

“Yeah, a couple of screws. Why?” Scott asks.

“Screws,” Jason mumbles as if he’s been personally insulted.

Scott chuckles and tries to restrain a smile.

“What?” Jason asks.

“Screws. My screws are screwing with you. It’s funny.”

Jason quirks his eyebrow without taking his eyes off Scott’s arm. His profile is all irritated angles, but Scott can see the gentle curl of his eyelashes in relief. “Funny, huh?”

“Maybe I’m easily amused.” Having his arm back gives Scott a floaty, easy feeling he hasn’t had for months; Jason’s frustrated face makes Scott want to lighten him up too. “Who says sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me?”

“Pardon?” Jason says, still not looking his way.

“It’s a joke. Who says sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me?”

Jason blows air through his lips. “Dunno. Who?”

“A guy who’s never been hit with a dictionary.”

It works; Jason shakes his head and smiles at him with a little snort. “Really.”

Scott’s heart thumps light and trippy. “Thomas told me that one. We have a thing going. Injury jokes.”

“Well, there’s a smile.” Jason returns his attention to the task at hand. “Didn’t know if I’d ever see it.”

Jason changes tactics, lifting Scott’s forearm away from his body. He supports the bicep with his other hand and rotates it from the shoulder, giving it a pull until Scott’s body turns toward him.

Oh, that feels…brilliant. “Can you do that again?”

“Let’s do,” Jason agrees. Scott breathes smoothly as he feels the stretch, his shoulder offering no resistance. Jason gives his arm a gentle twist while holding it at the elbow, and Scott exhales with a little groan.

“I think your jaw unlocked just then. Let’s take a look.”

Jason presses his fingers against the hinge of Scott’s jaw, then back toward his ears and under them. It’s true, the ropy muscles on each side of Scott’s face have loosened, but Scott still can’t drop his jaw freely when Jason asks him to.

“Try something for me?” Jason’s voice is low, like he’s sharing a secret. “You know that lovely feeling when you’re just waking up? On a day where there’s no alarm and there’s no hurry…when you’re conscious, but not ready to move or talk yet?”

Jason’s fingers find a notch in each of Scott’s cheekbones and rub in the tiniest of circles. “Mm hmm.” Scott knows what he means. A Sunday morning feeling. Something he would only find in his other life, his life before.

“See if you can remember a morning like that.” The circles get bigger. A muscle in the right side of Scott’s face resists with a dull ache; Scott’s eyes squint with it, but Jason keeps on. “A place where you’re relaxed and rested. Content. No place to go. Nothing to say.”

Scott doesn’t know if the doctor is talking to him or that stubborn muscle. Doesn’t matter. He finds that if he lowers his jaw a little more and lets his mouth open it feels a bit better, and he can think.

“Hmm. I suppose world-travelling, award-winning photojournalists don’t get many days off, do they?” Jason asks.

Cheeky. But it triggers a memory. “World-travelling photojournalists could book themselves an extra few days in, say, Barcelona.” Scott’s voice is deep in his chest and his words come slowly. “Especially if they don’t have to be in Madrid until the weekend.”

“Well then,” Jason agrees. “Barcelona. What do you remember about it?” His hands move back toward Scott’s ears and press a slow trail down his neck.

“I was there for an awards dinner. Lots of tuxedos and champagne. The hotel had these antique model sailing ships in the lobby. My boyfriend Patrick—well, I mean, my ex-boyfriend, now—he flew back to London the day after, for a job. But I stayed. I slept in every day, and they’d send me up these amazing fruit and cheese plates with blood orange juice.” Scott sighs, remembering.

“Hmm. Sounds nice. What else?”

Scott’s eyes flutter shut. “Blue and green–coloured tiles. A book of beautiful buildings. The sun would slant through these massive French doors.” Scott is surprised at how much detail he can remember about that room. “There was a white railing on the balcony. And a little ceramic dog on the night table.”

“You could go back there now.”

On Jason’s warm table, with music that isn’t music, and the smell of sunrise and soft trees in the air, it isn’t a stretch. He remembers the ease of that morning after they’d said their goodbyes and Patrick had slipped out for the airport. The white sheets had smelled like sex and almond shampoo, and the day had sat out in front of him like a present to unwrap. He can see his award on the night table, next to the empty wine glasses and that little boxer figurine. He thinks he might go to the Picasso Museum later, wander around until closing and then take a walk to find dinner. But for now, the bed feels deep and soft and the sun is coming through the shades just so. He nestles his face into the pillow and curls further under the covers.

“Now turn you head for me, toward the window.”

Scott’s head rolls to the side obediently. His body feels like a bag of sand. The stretch in his neck as he turns his head makes a soreness flame up, but it’s a distant annoyance, as if a car alarm is sounding blocks away. Jason’s hand rests against Scott’s neck, then moves his hair out of the way before he slides his palm down the taut skin to where it slopes into his shoulder. Behind Scott’s eyes, the sun-dipped hotel room in Barcelona dissolves into an inky darkness pinpricked with diamond stars, and the French doors turn into his beautiful, rising fire. Scott gets up from the bed and walks into the flames.

*

He arrives on the other side to a shadowy room whose walls are cold, stone piled on stone. He sits at the head of a table that is cold, too, a slab of dark wood big enough for twelve. Everything is heavy here, thick and dark, lit only by candles scented with sandalwood and spice.

Scott has to sign something. It is a decree from the emperor himself, painted on a scroll in bold, graceful characters that belie their threatening message. The parchment lies in front of him, next to the red lacquer box that contains his ink block and brush, along with the candle and wax with which he’s meant to seal it.

He feels confused. No, worried. A weight on his shoulders presses down on him, but it isn’t a physical weight. It is a weight of duty, of responsibility.

Men sit on either side of him with their arms crossed, some stroking their neatly trimmed beards or murmuring in guarded tones. These are men who look to him for guidance and answers, though all have the guilty air of rebellious soldiers who have eaten the last of their rations out of spite. None will meet his eyes.

Scott can feel the pull of the masses on the other side of the stone window. They are earnest people with simple lives, out there in the rice paddies and on the sea, faceless thousands who love him. This decree that he is meant to sign will confuse them. It will anger them. It will shake their trust in him and the dynasty his father’s father’s father built.

They will never forgive him.

Scott studies his hands, perhaps to find some wisdom there, and sees the hands of an old man, the red and blue veins crisscrossing like tree roots under leathery skin. Bronze bracelets adorn his wrists under long embroidered silk sleeves. One bracelet takes the form of an anchor, the same anchor depicted at the top of the parchment; it is the sign of his family, his dynasty, now under siege.

“How am I meant to do this?”

The only answering voice comes from the man standing at the window, staring out to the sea.

“They will understand, my king.” His words are wise and reassuring, the voice of a man Scott trusts with his life. “The alternative is war. Our people will know you are keeping them safe.”

He has never lied to me. Scott knows beyond doubt that he can’t say the same of the other men in the room.

The man who speaks is broad and strong, still imposing even at his age, his long, straight hair now more silver than black. When he turns to Scott, the jade and gold pin in the form of a ship on his collar glints in the dusky light. They are brothers. Not by blood, but Scott feels a bond as unshakeable as these stone walls.

“Our allies will come,” the man says confidently, pointing out to the ocean. “But not for months. Until then, this is our path.”

It is too long to wait. The men, women and children, farmers and fishermen are his. And they will be afraid. Worse, they will panic, and break into factions. They will turn on one another. “Our people, they need reassurances. Their loyalty will be…tested.”

His brother approaches with an uneven, limping gait, earned long ago in a different battle when they were young and new to the ways of war between emperors and their kings. He lays his hands flat on the table on either side of the document.

Scott needs to see his eyes. He’ll know for sure then; he’ll read his brother’s eyes plain as he can read the wind on the sea, and he will know what to do.

“We show them our unity. We show them patience. We show them who we are. Who they are. We hold fast.”

His brother’s words are the bolster Scott needs, as always, and his eyes are his truth. His strength. His resolve.

Scott reaches for the brush.

*

“Scott?”

There is a nudge to his shoulder and a tug on the sheet.

“You fell asleep.”

Scott’s forehead is damp with sweat, and he finds he can’t turn his head. Jason has put a hot towel under his neck, holding him in a position where his cheeks are slack and his mouth has fallen open.

“Jesus, sorry. I forgot where I was.” Long ago. An old man. A fortress at the edge of the sea.

“No worries. We’re done for today. Good work. Take your time getting up. Water’s on the counter. Finish it before you come see me.”

Jason’s footsteps recede, and it is the click of the door shutting behind him that brings Scott fully back to the treatment room on Forest Lane. For a moment, he checks in with his body, flexing his arms, rolling his jaw, and bending his knees up as Barcelona and the night valley and the stone-walled castle slide together in a blur. He turns over on his side, baffled that he can feel more rested after forty minutes with Dr Andrews than he does after five hours of sleep in his own flat.

He pushes himself up from the table, a little woozy at first but looking forward to getting dressed. He finishes his water in three gulps and slips into his shirt as a small but insistent thought grows louder.

I wasn’t asleep.

*

Jason is typing on his tablet when Scott knocks on his office door and steps in, brace in hand.

“So? You feeling good?”

“Yeah, I feel great, actually.”

Jason looks up at him with a smile. “Brilliant. A lot happened today. You’re going to need your water. You’ll stay on that, yeah?”

“Yeah. I will.”

“And the work we did on your jaw today loosened it up quite a bit, which will help to alleviate your headaches. That visualisation exercise—”

“You mean when you hypnotised me?”

“What?” Jason looks simultaneously amused and insulted. “I didn’t hypnotise you, I reminded you of something so you could relax. And it worked. You fell asleep.”

Scott smiles, letting Jason win. He can’t possibly tell him because he doesn’t quite understand it himself. But Scott was there, awake on Jason’s table but also in the castle by the sea, living inside the story of the king and his brother as it unfolded.

“Anyway, keeping that jaw loose is key. There are a few things you could do. Visualization, like what we did, that’s one. Or you can pretend you’re pissed, you know, proper drunk—where you slur your words and your face feels like it’s going to fall off?”

Scott gives Jason a quizzical look, then watches, fascinated, as all of the doctor’s crisp edges go curvy. His eyelids droop, and he starts to sway.

“Ya know, cuz whenya drinkin yer brain doooosnt sen infomation to yer muscles? Cuz thuh nurropathwayyyz don reac like theydooo when yer sobah. Soooooo. But pretenin to be pissd workz jussaz good azereal thin.” Jason smiles and snaps back to his old, sharp self, dropping the bit like a mask. “The drunker the better.” He points to the lower part of Scott’s face. “Gets everything in there loose.”

“Or you could practice that one shocked selfie face.” Jason opens his mouth and makes his eyes big, faking surprise. He holds an imaginary phone at arm’s length and taps the screen. “Though I suppose photojournalists don’t take selfies.”

“I’ll do the drunk thing. Without, or maybe with, the drinking part.” Scott’s face gets hot.

“Eight or ten times a day, or whenever you feel your teeth clamping together, drinking water, yeah? Do you need me to write you a prescription?” He turns as if to pick up his pad.

“Nah, I can remember. Blotto, every hour on the hour. Got it.”

“Good.” Jason crosses his arms and leans back against his desk. “Now one more thing.”

“Okay.” Something you do to me gives me visions. That’s one thing.

“It’s major.”

“Oh. Okay?” The doctor’s change in tone makes Scott cross his arms too.

“You’re presenting with indications of muscle strain consistent with someone who…has a construction job. Or moves furniture. Someone who’s carrying something heavy, who has had for a while. Shoulder buildup, tension in your jaw, compression in the throat. People who lug stuff around have that.”

“So, what’s that mean?”

“Well, it means I’m confused. Because you’re not supposed to be doing any lifting. Your splint wasn’t heavy enough to be the reason. So, what is?”

Jason’s direct gaze makes Scott’s palms sweat, and he looks at the floor. “Well, I used to carry my gear, you know. Tripod, camera, computer, all of that?” The buoyancy Scott felt moments ago drains away, leaving him spinning.

“Is that lately? Or do you mean before?”

“No, not lately.” Scott tries to clear his throat of a scratchy lump. “I don’t take pictures anymore.”

“Since the explosion.”

“Yeah.” One hundred sixty-three days exactly, according to the calendar he hash marks with his Sharpie in the early hours of each morning, after the darkroom spits him out. He looks past the doctor to the bookshelf. Blocky letters on colourful spines look back at him. The Twelve Powers. Clinically Oriented Anatomy. Radical Forgiveness.

There is a knock on the door, and Monica pokes her head in without waiting for Jason to answer. “Pardon, your half three cancelled. Chemo went badly, and she just…can’t.”

Jason picks up his tablet and slides it awake. “Did she reschedule?”

“She thought Thursday, early.”

“Right, thank you.” He nods at her, and she gives Scott a small smile before she turns to go.

Scott waits as Jason taps in some notes. He waits for the question, waits for the direct gaze that sees right down into him, no nonsense and no hesitation. He’ll know.

“Just so happens my half three cancelled.” Jason returns the tablet to his desk. “If you want to, let’s talk about what you’ve been carrying around.”

“I don’t know. Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.” Scott didn’t see this coming. He’d thought he could fly under the radar, just for a few appointments so he could get back to sleep. But now, Dr Andrews—Jason, whomever—with his warm hands and coaxing voice is going to try to pull him back into the land of the living from this jagged, bleeding edge he’s balancing on. There’d been a taste of it today, that brilliant feeling of being put back together, whole again, and it’s more than he deserves. Scott had forgotten that for a while, left Omran aside, hadn’t he? He can’t let that happen.

All at once Scott knows he can’t come back here.

He leans down to gather up his brace. Jason isn’t here; it’s Dr Andrews who is looking at him plainly, standing between him and the door.

“Let me tell you something, Scott. It’s the greatest irony of healing, the secret nobody tells you. You have to feel better before you can get better.”

Feel better? He can’t feel better, because that would mean his atonement is over, and it couldn’t be, not yet. The thought makes Scott’s eyes itch again, and he reaches into his pocket for his sunglasses. He has to make himself walk out of here.

“Thank you, Dr Andrews. I…I really…” Scott takes one last glance around the room as he steps toward the door.

“We can work through it, whatever it is. It’s heavy, I get that. But I’ll help you.”

Work through it? Talk it out? No, no, there’s no way he can talk about what happened in Afghanistan. Scott never went to the psychologist that had been recommended to him, precisely for that reason, and he’s not going to start now. “I…I’ll think about it. But I can’t stay today.” Scott’s throat is closing, and his legs may not hold him up for much longer.

“Thursday. Come back on Thursday at two, yeah?”

“Thank you,” Scott chokes out as they shake with right hands. Dr Andrews steps aside, and Scott is gone.

*

That night, Scott dreams he’s standing at a rotary-style payphone in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

Although he’s never been here before, he recognises the wrought-iron balcony railings and narrow, brightly coloured buildings. They’d studied the photographs and news coverage of Hurricane Katrina in journalism school. Here, in his dream, there is no one around, and he’s standing in cold brown water up to his knees. The phone booth has a broken door that won’t close and a cord that’s been cut. He finds some rupees in the pocket of his jeans and slips them into the coin slot. Before he can say anything, an elderly woman’s gravelly voice is on the other end, telling him there is nobody here by that name.