*IMOGEN
Two hours.
Two whole hours that I’d been waiting for Dr. Cunningham to return with better ways to help his son.
Ever since Jack and Beckett dispatched, my body remained reclined against the wall near the foot of Finn’s bed.
This room was utterly depressing. Cracks in the cement floor, cracks in the cement walls, cracks in the corner sink. And then, the rank smell of Finn’s infected flesh.
Finn, with his crazy-long limbs all sprawled out, took up the whole bed, plus some. His brow—the only part of him that wasn’t totally slack—had furrowed itself into a pained expression. The white sheet beneath his body accentuated the pale-green tint of his skin. Why wasn’t he waking up? Was he that close to the end? Had Jack knocked his skull one too many times back in that cell on the island?
Once, I went looking for Dr. Cunningham, but some bugger stopped me in the hallway, told me to go back to the room, and that the doctor would be in soon.
So where was he? Cunningham, you blighter, get in here and help your son.
*
Thirty minutes later, a strange, fidgety man—a man they called Bert—shuffled in.
He worked on Finn for a while.
It was funny though, how he cried, standing over Finn, how his arms would hardly stop shaking while he re-bandaged the bullet wound on Finn’s shoulder, how the guard never left his post inside the room while Bert was with us.
Bert seemed skeptical of me. He kept glancing over. The feeling was mutual. Anyone who acted so jittery and inept begged my suspicion, especially when he was working on my friend.
“I think I can come up with something to help,” Bert said softly.
Was he speaking to me? Or the guard? He didn’t look away from Finn when he said it.
“It will take a bit of time ….” Bert glanced at me then. “Can you administer water to him? And make sure he gets enough?”
“I’ll administer whatever you want mister, as long as it will help him get better. Just bring me a cup.”
Bert nodded. The guard followed him out.