Chapter Four

Sensitivity (n.) Expression of the nature of a photographic emulsion’s response to light. Can be concerned with degree of sensitivity as expressed by film speed or response to light of various colours (spectral sensitivity); care and understanding of needs and requirements; capacity for physical sensation or response, such as to heat or other environmental factors.

 

The herringbone blanket is folded on the table in Dr Andrews’s office just as Scott remembers. The slow cooker and crystals are in their usual places. The music of low strings and drum is “his,” and the white feather rests on the scarlet cloth, right next to the little jade plant in its porcelain pot. The last time Scott was here, he thought he’d never be back; hell, just yesterday he thought he’d never be back. But everything fits and is warm and familiar, and it all comforts his anxious mood.

All except this new tool on the counter. A stethoscope?

Its stainless-steel shine makes it look menacing somehow, and out of place. This room had been a sanctuary from tools like this, and Scott realises how much he wants to keep it that way, keep himself from feeling like a patient here. He backs away from it and turns to the window.

Although he’s fully dressed, he feels more naked than he’s ever been on the exam table; everything he said to the doctor’s answerphone is out there, and he can’t take it back. He’s got no brace today, no sunglasses, no splint to hide behind. Dr Andrews is going to be here in a minute and look at him the way he does, seeing into everything Scott’s about, and see that he’s not brave. Not brave at all.

He fiddles with the rubber band around his wrist and puts his hair up in a bun to distract himself, finishing it just before he feels the soft buzz of his phone. It’s probably Olivia checking in, not so subtly making sure he’s keeping his promise. He opens his messages, and the name he sees makes him sway on his feet.

It’s his boss from the Associated Press.

Ken Browning here, how are you mate?

Any idea when you’re back on roster?

Have a job in two weeks in DC.

Let me know.

The ringing in Scott’s ears gets louder, and the phone is suddenly heavy and hard to hold. For fuck’s sake.

His shoulders jump at Dr Andrews’s quiet knock, and he fumbles to close the message. He slides the phone back into his pocket as the door opens, revealing a Dr Andrews that looks different; he’s still sporting his trackies and trainers, but he is clean-shaven, and his hair covers his forehead in a long fringe. It makes him look younger, softer in the face.

It’s Jason. From the football photo.

“Scott. Good to see you,” he says, holding out his hand. As they shake his expression changes to concern. “Are you all right? You look pale. Need to sit down?” He doesn’t take his eyes off Scott as he puts a tony leather holdall on the counter between them.

“No, I’m…good,” Scott replies, watching him loop the stethoscope around his neck. “I didn’t know you had one of those.”

Jason pretends to be insulted. “’Course I do. I dust it off every few months so I don’t get rusty.” He gestures at Scott’s arm with a little smile. “No brace today. Good on ya.” He looks over Scott’s cheek, eyes stopping for a moment on his scar, and a perplexed look crosses his face. “Your hair is different.”

“So’s yours.”

Jason flips his hand up and smooths the ends of his fringe over his brow. “Ah, yeah. Kind of a different routine this morning.” A quick look passes between them that says something Scott can’t quite define before he changes the subject. “I got a call from Brenna Donovan. She sounds lovely, not like a drill sergeant at all. She sent over a report.”

Brenna, Scott’s new physio, is the direct sort who calls it as she sees it without any tiptoeing. She’s all of four foot nine with black hair and a sweet, freckled face that contradicts her commanding tone. Scott likes her and her take-no-prisoners attitude, the way she manages to be compassionate but at the same time entirely without mercy. Mostly he likes the pain. It helps him pay.

“Yeah, she said she was going to do that, right before she said, ‘Drop and give me fifty.’”

Jason puts a hand on his hip, his bright eyes looking out from under his fringe. “Oh, now you’re just making stuff up. You’re doing a post-op shoulder protocol with some elbow precautions. The only press-ups you did were standing against a wall. Like press-outs. Or press-sideways.”

“All right, fine,” Scott allows. “But she counted them. Loudly, in my ear.” Scott chuckles when he sees Jason smile. “Very drill-sergeanty.” He makes a face as Jason brings his hand up to feel the underside of his jaw.

“She’s good, very thorough. You should keep seeing her.”

“I will.”

Jason’s fingers press into the sides of Scott’s throat, then move up to the front of his ears and down his jawline. “That doesn’t feel quite as tight. Pain?”

“No.”

“That’s what you said last time. I think you weren’t telling me the whole truth.”

Scott swallows. “Well, pain is kind of…relative, isn’t it?”

“Um, no. Either it hurts, or it doesn’t.”

“Okay, well, then yeah. But it’s the kind of pain that hardly counts.”

Jason cocks his head. “How bad does it have to be before it counts?”

Shit. “I just meant…it’s not bad.” Scott’s back-pedalling is clumsy. “Not worth making a big deal out of, I guess.”

Jason’s side-eye softens. “Do you think I can’t tell? When you’re in pain?”

Scott shrugs his shoulders, a bit wary of all that Jason knows.

“Sometimes, when I ask you a question?” Jason grasps one of Scott’s hands, rubbing the fingers between his warm palms and examining the nails. His voice lowers to a stage whisper, but it has a smile in it. “I already know the answer.”

“Then why do you ask me?” Scott stage whispers back.

Jason switches to the other hand, massaging Scott’s fingers briskly from palm to fingertips. “Your body is easy to read. But this”—he taps his own temple—“and this”—he gives his heart a pat—“are harder. They all work together, so I want to know about them too.”

No. Trust me. You don’t.

Scott scrambles to change the subject. “What’s the bag for?”

“You’ll see.” Jason pulls the stethoscope from around his neck. “So, Brenna mentioned your cough in her report. Should we have a listen?”

Scott’s cheeks flush. He’d been unable to finish the easy bench presses this morning. Lying flat with even the slightest weight in his hand had tightened up his chest so much he’d struggled for breath, wheezing and coughing until Brenna had called it. “What’d she say?”

Jason steps to Scott’s side and places the stethoscope to his chest. “Just noted it, nothing major. We’ll see.”

Scott breathes smoothly in and out, the cough that had pestered him this morning now nowhere to be found. Jason removes the stethoscope from his ears. “Clear as a bell.”

“So? That’s good, right?” He watches Jason open a drawer and toss the instrument in, then bring out one that looks like a pen.

Jason shrugs. “Helps us know what it’s not. Congrats, you don’t have pneumonia, bronchitis, asthma, or whooping cough.” He clicks the penlight and a bright beam appears at its tip. “When’s the next time you see your ear nose and throat guy?”

Drop your jaw, drop your jaw. “Friday, I think?”

“Right. Let’s have a look then.”

Scott doesn’t know where to put his eyes as he’s told to open his mouth, stick out his tongue, and say ahhh. He settles on the red foiled seal on one of Jason’s diplomas. It reminds him of something, but he can’t place what.

“No drainage either. Doesn’t look like allergies or cold, but there’s some inflammation from…something.” Jason looks at Scott’s neck with squinted eyes. “We’ll see what ENT says,” he mumbles to himself as he backs up to the counter and returns the penlight to the drawer. He fishes out a notebook, then taps the holdall.

“It’s a lovely bag, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, glad they are changing the subject. It’s a nice bag, sporty, but all dressed up for the city with leather handles and two shiny buckles.

“Posh, innit? It’s my favourite. Good for carrying stuff. Or holding things for a while.” Jason opens it, the zipper making an expensive sound.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s for you to put something in.”

Scott stares blankly at him, then back to the bag. There is a bumpy flutter in his chest. “Like what?”

“What you’re carrying, that heavy thing. You can just put it in here. Temporarily. Only if you want to.”

Scott shakes his head with a little noise in his throat. He grips his injured arm, pinching at the elastic bandage through his sleeve. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Here, it’s easy. First, I leave, right? Then it’s up to you how you want to do it. You could say it, out loud, into there.” He taps the notebook with the pencil. “Or you could write it down and put it in. Or you could…” He makes a grabbing gesture with his hands in front of Scott’s torso, shaping air into a ball. “Gather it up.” He mimes chucking it into the bag, slides the zipper closed, and gives it a pat. “For safekeeping. You can take it back when you’re ready to leave. Or not. So. Get it in there, zip it up, done.” Jason puts a hand on his hip as if what he’s just said makes perfect sense.

Only it doesn’t. At all.

What kind of insanity? Scott takes a step back and squints at the bag. This is a fucking game now? Confusion and frustration sharpen into anger in a hot second. God help Jason if he’s saying that Scott is meant to play at this, poking fun at this thing that’s brought him to his knees.

“You’re serious?” Scott’s eyes and mouth feel flinty as the words come out.

Jason’s voice is grave, his eyes unsmiling. “I’m serious.”

Unfuckingbelievable.

“Fucking right it’s serious,” Scott bites out as he turns to the window, cold hands clenched into fists. Jason can’t think his posh bag can hope to hold what Scott’s got.

He silently, furiously rattles off the possibilities. How about a fire so hot it’s invisible? How about a car, melted and inside out? Noise so loud it can split eardrums, broken glass like slicing razors. A bloody shoe. Screams that choke. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.” Nightmare, scalpel, scar. “We call it blood-blindness.” Needle. Scorch. Blister. Widow. Sorry.

These are the very lightest of the dark places, and Scott chuckles ruefully, barely masking the shake in his breath. Scott crosses his arms tight and lets out a harsh sigh that wants to be a growl. Sweat has broken out everywhere, but his mouth is dry.

He spins and levels his eyes at Jason. “Just one problem.”

“What?”

Anger gives way to something that feels like futility welling up in his eyes, and it threatens to pool over. The words come out like he’s spitting them. “This lovely, posh bag of yours? It isn’t fucking big enough.”

Jason grips the tan leather handles as he nods. “I thought you might feel that way. But I bet you’d be surprised what it can hold. Give it a try. Just one thing. Not all of it. Just one.”

THERE. IS. NO. ONE. THING. I CAN’T. UNTANGLE. IT ALL.

Scott could hate Jason for this; he wants to tear that bag apart with his hands. “You really think I can…” Scott trails off with a contemptuous shake of his head. “Fucking drop it in there and zip it up and that’ll help?”

Jason stands steady, bigger than his slight frame, his jaw set. “I do.”

Scott blows air out of his cheeks and waves his hand as if to push Jason out. “All right. Go then.” Scott’s vision goes blurry with rage.

“I’ll give you some extra time. Before I come back, I mean.”

“Don’t. I’ll be ready in two.”

*

Face down means Scott doesn’t have to look at the bag. It’s right where Jason left it, open and waiting on the counter, the notebook untouched.

If he wasn’t still fuming, Scott might feel like a poor sport; Jason invited him to play a game, and Scott refused. Vehemently. But Jesus, come the fuck on. The anger has energised him. His veins rush with adrenaline, and it’s impossible to sink into the table like he should because his legs can’t get comfortable for twitching and his hands won’t stay still.

Jason does what Scott asked, slipping into the room just after Scott tucks into the face cradle. He doesn’t say a word as he smooths the blanket over Scott’s legs and adjusts the pillow under his feet.

“Is the heat okay?” Jason finally asks, hovering around Scott’s head. If he’s angry, Scott doesn’t hear it. He presses the blanket firmly across Scott’s shoulders, tucking it in at the sides. That makes Scott feel worse. He squints his eyes shut with a twinge of guilt.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” But I’m still mad at you.

Now, Jason pulls Scott’s hand from under the blanket, and his fingers graze over Scott’s balled-up fist.

“All warmed up already. But we’ll do stones anyway, yeah?”

Why? Scott thinks belligerently. He hadn’t noticed, but now that Jason mentioned it, his hands throb with a hot pulse. He watches through the face cradle as Jason’s feet step away. Then the bag slides to the end of the counter and the lid of the slow cooker clatters open.

“Okay.” Normal. Just be normal. Scott concentrates on the ringing in his ears and the gentle drum music behind it.

Jason should be saying “hot rock” so Scott will know when it’s coming, but there are no words, just Jason pulling against his fingers, using his thumbs to open them. Scott wants them to uncurl, he truly does, but they are frozen, and Jason has to knead Scott’s fingers away from the palm with both hands.

“Oh, um, sorry,” Scott offers.

“Don’t be,” comes the answer, and Scott isn’t sure if they are talking about his hand or all the rest. But soon it doesn’t matter because the scent of arnica is wafting over him, making his teeth slip apart. A locked-in breath is let loose with a sigh.

“Hot rock.”

Scott grasps it tight as if finding the anchor he’s been waiting for. Jason wraps his hand with a warm towel, and the gesture is enough to quiet the last of Scott’s anger. It’s like waking from a bad dream, finding himself truly back on the table, mind growing calm with thoughts like thank you. I can’t. I’m sorry. Jason moves the blanket over his hand and gives it a quick squeeze before he moves back to the counter, as if he has understood, as if everything will be all right.

The door is open; now Scott just has to walk through it. He wants them to be on proper footing again, where they lob and volley and push and pull and work together from the same side. The heat of the rock and the scent of the night valley make him brave enough to take a risk.

“So, uh…what do people usually put in the bag?”

“Sorry?”

Scott pulls up from the face cradle so he can rest his cheek on its warm flannel cover. “Your bag. What do people put in it? I mean, if you’re allowed to tell me.”

“Hot rock.”

This hand is quicker to cooperate. When it’s tucked in, Scott feels balanced and squared up, ready for whatever might happen.

Jason moves to Scott’s feet and lifts the blanket. “Well, I don’t always know. Sometimes people tell me, and sometimes they don’t. I don’t need to know the details for it to work, does that make sense?”

“I think so.”

Scott likes listening to Jason talk. His voice has a hard line in it, an insistent rat-tat-tat rhythm when he’s in doctor mode, but Scott has heard a different tone, too, where it’s milder, with long vowels and tender edges. He’s talking that way now, as if he is telling a bedtime story to a very young, very tired child, which Scott supposes fits just fine.

“For instance, I know cancer’s been in there. And addictions. Let’s see…there’s been some depression. Hot rock. And some guilt, I think. Things said or done that can’t be fixed that just…weigh on people.”

Scott hums, a swell of heat rippling in his chest.

“And there are all sorts of wrongs and hurts too. Grudges. Jealousy, abuse.” A pause. “Infidelity.” The way Jason clips off the word tells Scott they may have crept into some delicate territory. He recalls a photograph on Jason’s bookshelf of a happy Jason hugged tight. Shit. Scott thinks of a question, to keep Jason talking.

“How do they, I mean, do they ever put, like, a real thing in there?”

“Sometimes. Symbolic things. Photos, jewellery. One patient put an ultrasound picture in there once. She’d had a miscarriage.”

The heft of it silences them both for a minute. Scott’s shoulders let go a bit, and his arms feel heavy on the table, like he might not be able to lift them if he tried. He’s sort of crushed by the idea, that there is a sadness a woman out there is carrying around that no one can see, that she put into Jason’s bag for a while. Maybe that’s why the bag is so posh. To hold precious things.

“Oh, and someone put her wedding ring in there once. Said she didn’t want it back either. Hot rock.”

“Jesus,” Scott whispers, horrified. “What did you do with it?”

Jason lets out a little sigh. “I really didn’t know what to do with it, to be honest. I called one of my mentors about it. She suggested I give it back to the world somehow. So I took it to Forest Lane Park and hooked it on a tree.”

“Holy shit, you did not.”

“Holy shit, I did.” Jason covers Scott’s feet and rests his hands on Scott’s heels for a moment. “That was back in…March? It’s probably decorating some bird’s nest by now.”

Scott can see it, a little brown house sparrow picking the ring off a branch and flying home with it. It makes him smile. “Lucky bird. And lucky bird’s lucky spouse.”

Jason chuckles too. “Quite.”

They are silent while Jason pulls the blanket down to Scott’s waist and tucks it in.

I really didn’t know what to do with it. Scott has trouble picturing Jason confused about anything, but can easily tick off a few things he himself doesn’t know what to do with. Actually, it’s just one thing, sitting on the high shelf of his cupboard.

Scott takes another step, feeling like he’s out on a tightrope, walking away from the platform into the wind. “So…how would I know what to put in there? If I was going to do that?”

“Your body will tell you if you ask it.”

What now? Good Lord.

Jason rests his hand on Scott’s shoulder where bare skin meets the elastic bandage. “I’d start here. Or some other place where your body is tight. Jaw, hands…if we have to work to get them open, there’s something they don’t want to let go of. Only you know what it is.”

Scott does know. It’s there, massive and lurking, buried deep under the scars and rubble. He’s been paying for it every day, and keeping score on his calendar every night.

“Know what? I think I owe you a dream,” Jason says.

Scott is glad for the pivot, and the relief makes him sigh out loud. “Actually, you owe me three.”

“Hey, I only asked you for one. You volunteered three.”

Damn. “Okay, compromise. Two.”

“Oh, all right. Three.” Jason places a heat pack over Scott’s back. “Let’s see. There was one where I was flying down a ski slope. Not on skis, mind you. I was in this clear bubble, high off the ground, and I could steer it with my mind. It was cold, but it was beautiful from up there, and easy, you know? I got going faster and faster, but then I got scared, I guess, and lost control. I crashed into a tree, and that woke me up. But get this. When I woke up, I was actually outside on my front stoop, shivering because I had nothing but pants on.”

“Oh shit,” Scott says, chuckling. “I used to have flying dreams all the time. Except in mine, I was like Superman. No cape, but I could just think about it and take off.”

“Sounds like fun. You could try to have a flying dream tonight if you want. See what happens?”

When Jason says it, it seems completely possible. “Okay. I will.”

Jason presses down on Scott’s shoulders through the layer of heat. “Okay, number two. This is one I have a lot. I’m in a fancy lift, all dressed up in a suit, going someplace important. So I press the button for the lobby, but I go up. Then I press Roof, and I go down. People keep on getting on and off, but no matter which button I try, I keep getting farther from where I need to go.”

Scott finds it strange that Jason would have the sort of dream that leaves him alone in a lift, sharp in a jacket and tie, bewildered. It reminds him of a dream he had years ago, when he first started travelling for work. “I’ve got one like that. I’m in Grand Central Station in New York, all set with my cameras and luggage and my passport, waiting at the right track. But my ticket says London Waterloo, and the conductors won’t let me board.”

Jason begins to work a knot under Scott’s shoulder blade. “And everyone else is going about their business, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I hate those.”

Scott inhales deeply, feeling a twinge of pain where Jason presses on a tight knot, but also a bit of sadness. “What happens with the lift?” he asks quietly. “Do you ever get there?”

“Haven’t yet. But I’m hoping to, one of these days.”

“Yeah,” Scott says after a long moment. One of these days.

“All right, best for last. It’s a sunny day, and I’m walking on a rocky beach, all alone. It’s the most gorgeous place I’ve ever seen. There’s a warm breeze, sunlight sparkling on the water, and the sky’s as blue as can be.”

“And what happens?”

Jason’s voice grows wistful, his hands gentle. “Actually, nothing. I walk. Breathe. Take my time, wading in the shoreline. I pick up a rock, put it in my pocket. That’s it. It’s like I’m the only person left on earth. But it’s not lonely. Or scary. Just peaceful.”

“That’s lovely.”

“It really was. I had that dream so long ago, but I still think about it. The way I felt when I was there. Maybe I’ll get back there someday too.”

The last deep press of Jason’s hand on Scott’s back feels like understanding, and he doesn’t mind when Jason tells him it’s time to turn over. Scott can tell the two of them are back on the same side, their vicious scrap over and done, and he’s ready to open up to the room again.

*

Jason lifts Scott’s injured arm and dangles it by the wrist. It’s stiff and heavy, and it wants to curve in tight across Scott’s body in the position it rested in for months while it healed.

“It’s all right,” Jason says. “Don’t try so hard. Remember what we did before? Think about something else.”

Scott tries to envision the black silhouette of trees against the starry sky of the night valley, but the picture won’t come. “We did this last time, and it was fine. Why can’t I control it?”

“You’ve been protecting yourself for a long time now. We can’t expect that you’re going to have two sessions and everything’s going to magically loosen up.” He places Scott’s arm on the table and tucks it in. “No matter how exceptionally skilled I am.”

“It’s frustrating,” Scott mutters, and clears his throat of a little itch.

“There’s something I’d like you to try. Has to do with your breathing.”

Scott feels like he’s used up his refusals for the day, and they’ve just returned to solid ground. “Okay,” he says, trying to keep the doubt from his voice.

“Don’t worry. This is an easy one.” Jason tents his hand so his fingertips touch Scott’s breastbone through the blanket. “See, your breathing is shallow, all up in here?” Jason places his hand down flat underneath Scott’s ribs. “It’ll help if we can get it down into here.”

“Down there?”

“You’re trying to fill this up, like a balloon. See if you can make my hand move.”

It strikes Scott suddenly just how intimate this is, how close Jason is standing, and how clearly he can see and feel how well Scott’s body works or doesn’t. A prickle of goosebumps rises on his thighs.

“Now?”

“Go.”

Scott takes his first breath and sees his chest rise, but Jason’s hand hasn’t moved by the time he has to let it out. A flutter in his throat makes him cough before he tries again, and by the third try, he has to roll to his side while Jason gets his water.

“My throat’s closing up.” He takes a few gulps. “I can’t get enough air.”

“Try slowing it down. Breathe in and out for the same count. One, two, three, four—” Jason inhales and lets it out. “—one, two, three, four. Just there, where you are.”

Scott is propped up on his elbow with the bottle still in his hand. He counts in his head. One, two, three, but his chest feels tight. Jesus, why can’t all my parts work right at the same time? He tries again, but this time only gets halfway through before he has to stop. Sweat breaks out on his upper lip.

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” he wheezes out, handing his bottle back to Jason. His easy relaxation is gone, replaced by dread.

“Okay, let’s do it backward. Lie down, like you were. It’s easier that way.” Jason sounds like a coach now, animated, and his eyes are bright with the idea. “This time, do the exhale first. Empty it all out, pause for a bit, then inhale.”

Scott rolls to his back, covering up again. “But that’s the same thing.”

“Nope, it isn’t. I know you can do this. Show me.” Jason’s hand lands against Scott’s abdomen again, and Scott can feel its heat even through the sheet and blanket. That heat makes him want to try.

“Okay, ready?” Scott asks. They exchange a nod, and Scott breathes the air out unevenly.

“Pause a bit,” Jason whispers quickly, and Scott does, hovering in the space between out and in, and he actually feels his lungs flip open. His eyes get wide, turning to Jason with a shock, and he breathes in slowly for what feels like ages, and…oh shit I forgot to count, and that’s enough to break his stride, landing under the kind, dark night sprinkled with stars.

Jesus. It worked.

“Perfect. Do it again.”

Scott’s already a step ahead, closing his eyes and pushing the air out until he’s completely drained of it, then staying there for a few moments. He waits for the tiny shift in his chest, and when it comes, he’s opened up and can let it all in for days. He forgets to look down at Jason’s hand, but this is a feeling he’s not sure he’s ever had, and he doesn’t much care if he’s passing the test. He can breathe in and in and in, and when he can’t anymore, that gentle turn inside flows the air out. It’s…easy; he’s not controlling it, or guiding it. It is guiding him. His head rolls back slightly, opening his throat, and it feels like he’s riding on a wave, coasting effortlessly through the crests and the troughs.

Jason lifts Scott’s hand and brings it down to rest next to his, rising and falling as Scott breathes. Scott can’t feel his arm anymore, can’t really feel anything but the depth of his lungs and the hot edge where their hands meet. There are stars and trees and mountains, pulling him away from this room and into the valley, to see the fire. A voice from the far corner of his mind says he can use Jason’s hand as an anchor to bring him back, and that’s all the permission he needs.

“Keep going,” Jason says, but his voice sounds far away, and it’s too much effort for Scott to make his mouth move to answer.

He’s already gone.

*

When he gets to the other side, she’s running. Or is it more like racing?

No. This is escaping.

Again, Scott can see a new world in sharp focus and feel it from the inside. She’s been dropped right into the centre of it, this time outdoors, in a forest. And again, she is not alone.

Someone or something is chasing her for what she carries in the pack that rides high across her shoulders. They are her enemy, and though she has had half a day’s head start, she doesn’t turn to look for them; that will only slow her down. Her people have entrusted her to take the priceless contents of her pack and go, far out of the enemy’s reach, away to safety.

She is a messenger and scout, no stranger to the long run. Painted feathers on her tunic and falcon colours on the trim of her leggings are the badges of agility and speed. Her feet in her soft hide shoes propel her over the forest floor as if she’s dipping and diving through the air instead of bound to the earth. This path is as familiar as her mother’s braid, the trees as comforting as her brothers’ faces. She’s been running since the sun was high in the sky, an easy momentum carrying her, the rhythm of her footsteps melding with the beating heart of the woods. Her legs feel strong and awake, and instinct tells her there is a speed in reserve just beyond this, waiting for her to kick into if she needs it. But for now, if she can keep this pace until dark, they will be able to stop to eat and rest for a short while. The enemy won’t find them if she can get to the caves by the Great River.

The sheltering cover of the woods gives way to open prairie, and she stops for a moment before heading out into the sea of it. She swings the pack from her back and sets it on the ground to check on the child.

Scott pushes aside the red fox pelt and regards the little one’s face, she who is the youngest of the story-keepers. The baby girl has dark hair that falls over her forehead in wispy down. Her cheeks are rosy, and a sepia triangle marks her tiny chin. Scott looks into the child’s dark, curious eyes and feels the weight of their journey, not for the first time. She will take this little one all the way to Four Streams, where the next scout waits to take her further so the stories of their clan will not die.

“We are almost there, Littlest Fox. We will rest soon.” The river is a short way beyond this stretch of open land, so close now. She lifts the pack to her shoulders once more.

She’s gone only as many strides as she can count on her hands when she sees them. The feather fans of their war helmets are bright in the dusky sunlight, and their horses’ black heads loom eerily still above the tall prairie grass. The sight crushes her, sucks all the air out of her lungs as she turns back in a frantic dash to the trees. Their whoop pierces her ears, and fear is ice in her chest.

She has never seen horses so big. She knows she is no match for them.

She calls to the Falcon. “See me! Lift us, carry us on the wind, away from here!” But her plea is choked off. She can’t get her breath, can’t open to the pulsing energy of the ground underfoot. She lets out a desperate wail as she darts blindly through the grass that has grown sharp, cutting her hands. How can she find the speed she needs when she cannot breathe? Where is the well-worn path? Where are the shielding brother trees?

The timber looms ahead, blurry and dark, closing the way to her because she misread this task somehow, misjudged the distance or the rhythm or the way out, and now she can’t ever return. She has failed this little girl and her people, and the Falcon will no longer claim her.

The warrior hoofbeats are gaining, beating out their message. All her world will hear what she has done.

*

Scott feels the familiar pressure of a knot being worked in his thigh. His face is hot; his nose is running, and he sniffles. The blanket shifts over his leg, and a tissue is pressed to the side of his face.

“Jason, I was…ugh, I’m…” he gasps weakly, “crying again.” He opens his eyes long enough to spot Jason and take the tissue from him.

“You know”—the crisp edges of Jason’s voice have gone soft again—“you can let go of things in all sorts of ways. Crying’s one of them.”

Holy shit, wait. Scott’s eyes snap open, and he’s fully back. This is what he meant. His heart thumps with a hot skip.

“Is it too late to put something in the bag?” He scrambles to sit up. He’s headachy, and his eyes hurt, but he is alert with urgency. Scott makes a quick writing gesture with his hands because Jason doesn’t understand. “I have to…paper?”

“Oh. Yeah, just a sec.” Jason rushes to the counter to get the notepad. Scott’s eyes are bleary and leaking, but when Jason thrusts the paper at him, he wipes them clear and hones them into focus.

At first, the writing is choppy, starting and stopping as he tries to wrap his mind around it. The circuit between his brain and his hand is rusty, but soon the pencil slides swiftly across the paper. Images like movie clips flash one after the next, and he tries to get it all out of himself onto the page. The sentences start off complete and in straight lines, but soon they go messy; sights and sounds flood through until a page is filled. He rips it off, crushes it into a ball, and throws it over, quick to pick up the pencil again because his thoughts are coming faster than his hand will write. Sentences turn into phrases and then half words like shorthand, scrawled into the book so roughly he almost tears it.

He pulls off the second page and throws it to the ground without bothering to see where it lands. “You can have this. I don’t want it back. Ever.” Scott says the words without looking away from his work and without stopping. He doesn’t hear Jason answer, but he knows he’s been heard. This is for the bag. And this and this and this. Take it, take it away. I want it gone.

His gaspy breaths sound loud, but he doesn’t care; he’s hot, and he wants water, but he can’t stop. Every last word needs to come out until there is nothing left to haunt him or ambush him in his sleep. He’s not even sure he’s writing in English now, strange adjectives, verbs, and pronouns biting and scraping at the paper. The writing looks nothing like his, crude letters crowding and spiking, so now he’s adding pictures, and there is another page full, ripped to the floor again, and again, more and more, still running racing away, away, away, and the next page is one huge word that he rips off with a growl, and then the tears come again, dropping onto the lined paper. The next sketch is primitive like a cave drawing, but it condenses the wave of information precisely, so much so that Scott can’t look at it, can’t ever think of it again.

After that, the flood that had burst through slows to a trickle. One more page is partly filled, and finally, there isn’t anything left.

Scott rolls his shoulders and looks over the side of the table as if in a rowboat looking down at the water. Pages litter the floor, some crumpled, some ripped. He looks up to see Jason with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall in the far corner near the loo.

Scott knows only one thing to do. “Can you burn it?”

Jason makes an impressed face, eyebrows rising with a quick nod. “Let’s.”

Jason takes three quick strides and bends over to gather all the pages. He crumples them, not looking at their contents.

“You coming?” Jason asks, turning his head as he continues on toward the sink.

“What, now?”

“Hell yes, now.”

Scott grabs the blanket and wraps it around his waist like a bath towel as he makes his way over. Jason dumps the papers into the sink, then opens a drawer and fishes out a lighter. He holds it out for Scott to take.

Scott’s eyes hurt. His face feels swollen, and his nose is running. He feels like shit, if he’s honest. But something that had been clamping down on his chest has broken loose. A slight tremble in his fingers makes it difficult to work the lighter’s wheel, but on the third try, the flame catches, and he touches it to the closest ball of paper. For long moments they watch as the glow eats the story, dissolving it, each piece catching on the next. When it threatens to go out, Scott blows on it gently and the flames grow with a hiss.

Jason speaks softly. “We could be done for today if you want. Or not.”

There are only curly black shapes in the sink now, and Jason gestures to Scott to turn on the tap. The last pieces break up and slide down the drain with Jason and Scott standing shoulder to shoulder watching them go.

“Do you still have that eye pillow?” And there’s something you did to my forehead. “Can we do that? Then we can be done.”

*

This time, when Jason places the pillow over Scott’s eyes, the darkness comforts him. There isn’t any panic or fear, just a soft void that smells like cloves. Scott’s eyes fold under the weight like they’ve been tucked in, and the pounding in his head quiets to a dull murmur.

“Are we late?” Surely he’s used up all their time.

“We still have a few minutes.” Jason’s thumbs start their gentle strokes right above the bridge of Scott’s nose, fan out to his hairline, then return over his eyebrows. They coax Scott to let his jaw go. He finds himself breathing in that pattern again, with the exhale first. He can pause in between for a second or two, waiting for that moment his lungs open up and breathing feels like the only thing he’s meant to do.

The connection to the valley is tapped out; Scott is solidly here with Jason with no glimpse of stars or the world before. He thinks about the girls in the forest with flat curiosity, objectively, the way he would think about a maths problem or a hand of cards. The charge of it has faded from vibrant, breathing colour to a still frame black-and-white. Yet he has no doubt he was awake inside that world. He had known the terrain. He had felt the danger. He’d even known the outcome before it happened, but he’d had no power to change it. So what was it then? Like the king in the stone fortress, the girl in the forest is more than a character in a story. She is a memory. A detailed, familiar, brand-new-yet-impossibly-old memory.

From this calm resting place, his theory seems only mildly irrational. Scott considers telling Jason about it, but truly, he doesn’t have any idea how to explain it if he did. He tucks the mystery away for now because Jason is ironing the tension from his forehead, which makes it hard to think.

“You okay?” Jason asks. “I bet you have a headache.”

“A little. It’s a lot better than it was.” I wonder if we’ll ever stop talking about my pain.

“It was…rough today. But really good, I think?”

“Yeah, it was. Good. And I guess rough too.” Scott clears his throat and remembers their row with a cringe. He had felt desperate to hurt something, hating the adrenaline shake in his hands and the blur in his eyes. It frightened him, all that fury he didn’t know he had, lashing out to protect the tender spots underneath. He’s glad he can’t see Jason right now.

“I’m…I’m sorry about getting arsey before. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“Pssh, I think it came out just the way it needed to. Sometimes getting mad is what it takes to bring things up and let them go. That’s what we want.”

Let it go.

People have been telling Scott to let it go ever since he’d arrived back in London and opened his eyes. “It’s not your fault,” Olivia had told him earnestly, over and over, with the best intentions. “It was just the wrong place, wrong time” had been Patrick’s brilliant insight before he left.

But they hadn’t walked on that street, and hadn’t seen that car. They hadn’t lived through that day while the man standing beside them died. It’s Scott’s responsibility to hold on to that, isn’t it? He’s the only one who can. But Jason says he can put it down, or maybe give it up completely. It’s as if Jason is beckoning him, calling him down from the ledge. From this quiet place, a new thought wakes up in Scott’s mind.

I feel good.

Last week, Jason had said it like he was letting Scott in on a secret: You have to feel better before you can get better. But Scott had blown right past him, the thought so impossible he couldn’t stay in the same room with it. But he had felt better. He’d almost cried with relief when Jason ripped off his brace. It had felt like stepping out of a heavy, dark fog; Scott had actually laughed that day and teased Jason about hypnotising him. He’d felt so alive in his body and so clear and quick in his mind. He felt that again today when he stood at the sink, exhausted but standing strong and breathing easy as the ashes went down the drain. And right now, he feels it too. Even at rest, every system and muscle and cell in his body is queued up and humming.

Put the shovel down, Scott. Stop digging.

Scott is suddenly fidgety, his legs moving under the blanket and his shoulders lifting. The runner in his memory couldn’t change her fate, but Scott can change it now. He’s not going to stay lost and helpless in the dark woods. Not this time, not ever again.

He twists up so quickly that the eye pillow lands with a plop on the table, and Jason’s shoulders jump. “I want to get better.”

The simple declaration clearly takes Jason by surprise. He opens his mouth and closes it again, which gives way to a nod. “Okay. Good.”

Scott goes on. “And Dr Coulter didn’t send me here just for my shoulder, did he? I mean, he knew there was more.” Scott grunts over a lump growing in his throat. “More that you would help me fix.”

Jason picks up the eye pillow and runs his thumbs over the soft material. “Yes, he did.”

Scott takes a deep breath, satisfied with this answer after everything else. They are going to do this; he’s going to get himself back. And of all his doctors, it’s going to be Jason, with his trackies and rolled-up sleeves and roomful of strange, simple tools who will help him get there. “Well. We have a lot of work to do then.”

Jason stands up straighter, his chin rising. “Yes, we do.”

“No, I mean…” Scott pauses. How will he tell Jason about the camera on the shelf? The scorecard calendar? The shake in his hands, or the nausea that cripples him? How will Scott tell him about that one heavy thing? It feels to Scott as if they are making a pact here, and Jason had better be well aware what he’s getting into. “I’m telling you, it’s…massive.”

“I know,” Jason assures him, his hands flexing and his eyes bright, looking ever so much to Scott like a fresh-faced, dashing young knight ready to slay the dragon. “I’m ready. Are you?”

*

Scott remembers the message from the AP only when he feels his phone heavy in the pocket of his jeans. Was that just an hour ago? It feels like a different week, a different continent. A different Scott.

He pulls out the phone and mumbles a curse; it takes so long to power on. His heart thuds as he opens the message, his fingers shaking with the itch to answer. He hits the reply arrow and types quickly.

Cheers, mate.

Not cleared for work yet.

A few weeks, tops.

Will let you know.

It’s true, he hasn’t been cleared for work. Not that he’s asked, specifically. But he’s on his way forward now. He as much as promised.

He bites his lip, then smiles. Jason is counting on him.