14 – Diamond Dogs

Roan pulled out his IV and then excused himself to sneak into the bathroom, mainly because he had to take a piss, but he also wanted to have a look at himself in the mirror. He held a wad of toilet paper to the IV exit wound until he forced a minor change, and got the skin to heal up enough that he didn’t have to worry about it.

Yeah, his beard was way too thick, and frankly it made him look a bit crazier than usual. But the worst part was his eyes. His blood vessels had healed, so his eyes were normal white, shot through with a couple of typical red capillaries. They looked fine, normal, except he knew they weren’t. His eyes were a lie, hiding a nature that was inhuman and inconstant. “Stop being such a freak, freak,” he muttered to himself, quietly, so no one else heard and had him committed.

When he stepped out, Doctor Rosenberg had gone, and Dylan and Tank were back. It was like an odd version of visitor musical chairs, except no one was sitting. Dylan did have the now empty tote bag slung over his shoulder, though, and Tank was holding the flowers. “Ready to go?” Dylan asked, trying to be chipper.

He nodded. “I’m starving. Can we stop somewhere on the way home?”

“Of course. What do you feel like?”

“Good question.” Roan held out his hand towards Tank, and he handed him the bouquet. Roan took the beer out, and handed it to Tank. “Hold on to that for me ’til we’re out of the hospital, okay?”

“Sure.”

Dylan eyed it in shock. “You brought him a beer?”

“He likes beer.”

“I like beer,” Roan echoed with a nod.

Dylan rolled his eyes and shook his head, and as they headed out into the hall, he asked Tank, “Is he a member of the team now? Did I miss a press conference?”

“He’s an honorary member,” Tank told him, struggling with the pronunciation of “honorary” for a moment. That was a hard word for those with pronounced French accents. “We expect him to jump on the ice and participate if there’s ever a bench clearing brawl.”

They were walking down the hall, more or less shoulder to shoulder, but Roan could tell Dylan wasn’t overly pleased with this. “Do you expect any?”

“No, but it is hockey, so it could happen. And I hope it happens when we’re playing the Wheat Kings. I’d love to unleash Roan on this center, Constantin Bourdin. He thinks he’s Sidney Crosby, but the only thing he has in common with him is whining like a little puss. He needs to be beaten like a pinata full of Krugerrands.”

That made Roan stop to laugh, as it was one of those overwhelming, hard laughs that almost paralyzes you. It took him a moment to get himself under control, to find Dylan and Tank waiting for him, Dylan looking mildly concerned, and Tank faintly, absently smiling. “That is the best metaphor I have ever heard. Can I use that?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Awesome.” He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, and as they started down the hall again, he held out the flowers towards a passing nurse. “Can you give these to someone who needs them?”

The nurse started at them and then him, but after a moment seemed to recognize him. “Oh, Roan, sure.” She took the flowers and moved on down the hall.

“Who was that?” Dylan wondered.

Roan shrugged. “No idea.” Dee seemed to know so many nurses and paramedics, Roan just assumed they knew him until it was obvious they didn’t.

They said goodbye to Tank in the parking lot, where he gave him the beer, and, much to his shock, a slightly clumsy hug. Roan patted him on the back and thanked him, letting him know he could visit him and bring him beer any time.

As soon as he and Dylan were in the car, he opened the beer and took a swig, and told Dylan, “I’m not going to drop dead any second, so you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve adapted.”

Dylan gave him a steady gaze that Roan had learned to interpret as ‘What the fuck are you on about?’ It was close enough. “What does that mean?”

“Fuck if I know. Rosenberg told me I most likely had an aneurysm, but it stopped, because I continue to adapt.” His mysterious anger returned, and he started to rant like a crazy person on  a bus. Tears blurred his vision, but he wasn’t sure if they were sad or angry; probably both. “I’m gonna be the longest living infected ever. I’m gonna outlive them all, maybe as a human, maybe as a cat, maybe as a huge fucking bipedal virus -”

Dylan cupped his cheek with his hand, and that’s all he did, but it startled him into silence. He then leaned over and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I love you, no matter what. You know that.”

Roan rested his forehead against his and put a hand on his chest. Sweet man, one he didn’t deserve. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“The insanity that is my life. Me.”

“Hey, I signed up for this ride. I knew from past experience that sexy men were always trouble, and it wasn’t like your reputation didn’t precede you. I have no one to blame but myself.”

“You think I’m sexy?”

“Don’t fish for compliments.” He gave him another kiss, then sat back in the driver’s seat. As he put the keys in the ignition, he asked, “You’re one hundred percent certain that Tank is straight?”

“What are you implying?” He took another swig of the beer. If it was this good warm, it must have been a thousand times better cold. He looked at the label, but alas, it was in French. It had a picture of a sword and shield on it, though. What the hell was it, Gladiator Beer? (Motto: For Those About To Die, We Beer You.)

He shrugged a single shoulder and shook his head, but as he started his car he just sat and stared at the windshield for a moment. “He’s fascinated by you. It’s definitely a man crush in one sense or another.”

“At least it’s mutual.” Dylan raised an eyebrow at that. “C’mon, he’s fucking cool. Anyone who can catch a thrown bottle before it smashes me in the face and stop a fight simply by scaring the shit out of the opponents is in my good books.”

The surprised look turned alarmed. “He did what now?”

He patted Dylan on the shoulder. “You should be glad he was there. When he does his intense crazy man act, no one wants to fight. They just want to run away and hide.”

“The fact that he has an intense crazy man act is alarming.”

“He’s a goalie. He’s gotta do something to defend himself.”

“They have big sticks.”

“If they hit someone with it, they’re penalized.”

“Oh. Is it because they could decapitate someone?”

Roan shrugged. “No idea. But you’d think.”

Once they were on the road, Roan turned on the radio, which was on one of the alternative stations (ah, Western Washington – there were a couple of “alternative” stations, but what it was the alternative to he had no idea), and they were playing Modest Mouse. When he heard the line “It coulda been, shoulda been worse than you will ever know -” he almost laughed. That was his medical diagnosis for the day.

They discussed where they’d stop for a bite to eat, and they decided on a nearby bakery, as Roan felt like sugar. He also asked Dylan if he’d found out about all that domestic partnership registry bullshit, and he said he had, which was good, as Roan figured they’d need to get that done before he disappeared into Willow Creek to be scanned within an inch of his life, in case something went wrong or the CDC decided to lock him up as a public menace.

Dylan hadn’t brought his cell phone, but he’d brought his own, so he borrowed it to call Holden. Dylan was off at the glass topped counter, ordering pastries and a green tea, while Roan sat at one of the tiny corner tables, feeling as gay as he had ever felt. Even when he married Paris he didn’t feel this gay. It was probably all the lace tablecloths and the ceramic teapots with Delft flowers on them. He suddenly wanted to camp it up like Pat Robertson was in the room.

He fought back the urge and called Holden (the gay hustler – well, this was a pretty fucking gay thing to do). The phone rang four times and he thought he was going to get shunted to his call messaging when he finally picked up. “Hey, Roan, I was gonna visit you later,” he said, sounding slightly breathless.

“Did I interrupt something?” He felt intensely weird calling during one of Holden’s “dates”. It seemed like a grotesque invasion of privacy that he wanted no part of, even from a distance.

“No, I was just doing my crunches,” he said, audibly taking a drink. “Hundred a day. Can’t get six pack abs, but I still have to work to keep the flab away. It’s fucking unfair.”

Roan grunted an affirmative. As much as he found flat stomachs sexy, he actually felt working towards them was too much bother and not worth it. Which was why he’d probably lucked out in having his wonky metabolism, which sometimes made it difficult to keep weight on (especially when he transformed all the time). But wasn’t he just partially hospitalized for undernourishment, even though he ate a whole pizza? It was a fucked up world, and he couldn’t see eating like Mr. Creosote just to keep the pounds on. Life was too short (more in some cases than others), and frankly, he probably didn’t have the budget for it. If only being a superhero paid. “I was afraid you’d gone to meet snuff guy without me.”

“Oh hell no. I’m just bait, the sidekick who gets kidnapped and has to be rescued. You’re the macho hero who rides in and kicks ass.”

“Says the guy who stabbed the two asshats that assaulted him.”

“I never said I was completely helpless. I’m just not the demolition man that you are.”

“Ha.”

“So you out?” He could only mean out of the hospital, as he’d been out forever.

“Yeah. It wasn’t bad as it could have been, I just pushed myself too hard.”

“Wow, that’s new,” he replied sarcastically.

“Don’t you start.” Dylan came to the table, bearing a tray of pastries and a cup of mango scented green tea. Roan gave him a nod of thanks and reached for the gooiest pastry, the one coated in what looked like chocolate icing with almost tar like consistency. Of course nothing here was a doughnut, everything had a French or Italian name, but damn it, it was a doughnut under an assumed name. He took a bite and enjoyed a minute of sugar coated bliss. Here was those ten thousand calories that Rosenberg wanted him to eat in a single pastry.

“Snuff guy hasn’t gotten back to me yet,” Holden admitted, with a disappointed sigh. “I don’t know if I’m not the type he was looking for, too professional, or too old.”

“Old? Come on, you’re not old.”

“Yeah I am. In hooker years, I’m like eighty. So I’m trying to get someone else in on this. I’m thinking Phoenix will be up for it. He’s a tough kid, he did a gig or two with Coyote so he’s good for the revenge angle, and he’s twenty three but looks seventeen, so I can’t see them ignoring this bait.”

He scowled down at the neat lace tablecloth. He didn’t like exposing someone he didn’t know to a bunch of murderous assholes. He didn’t feel good exposing Holden to them either, but at least he took some consolation in the fact that Holden was a much harder target than he looked. He could play up his lisp and seem super harmless, but people really had to not be paying attention to the look in his eyes, which was hooker hard and merciless. Everything had a price. “We don’t even have a workable plan. How can you bring someone else into this?” He was careful not to look at Dylan, as he knew the look Dylan would be giving him.

“I don’t like it either, but letting them get away is not an option.”

Well, he had to give him that. They’d killed three people that they knew about – who knew how many more that hadn’t been found? If they’d found one body for every two killed (a low estimate), that still put the body count at six.

“Oh, there was something I wanted to show you. You on your phone?”

“I’m on Dylan’s phone.”

“Web enabled?”

He checked. “Looks like it. Why?”

“I’m gonna send you a screen capture. I’ve been trying to comb through the films, trying to spot any recognizable faces. I’ve heard from a couple of girls working the street that Ebony has just dropped off the map, so I’ve been looking for her, and I noticed this kid and he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I thought you might know him.”

“Send it on.”

He did, although it took a minute, and the screen cap wasn’t the greatest. (Although he didn’t blame Holden for that; the snuff filmmakers were clearly using bargain basement cameras, and often lit things so the faces of the participants weren’t visible.) But he could make out what was essentially a profile shot of a kid – teenager, or someone in their early twenties – with close cropped black hair and a pointy sweep of bangs that almost made him look like an anime character. But what gave him away was his strong chin, not square but heavy, strangely rugged on such a young man. Roan felt a shock down to his toes, and the pastry turned to cement in his gut. Why did things always get worse? Was he cursed? That was it, wasn’t it? Some angry anti-cat hetero cursed him to have a life full of drama. If he believed in any sort of god, he’d have happily blamed it.  “Was he a participant or a victim?” he finally asked Holden.

“Participant, at least in the film I caught him in. Why? Who is he?”

He rubbed his eyes, wondering what he was going to do with this information. It was probably too late to save him. “It’s Jordan Hatcher, the boy I was hired to find.”

The question was, how did he get mixed up in this? And how much did his father know?

13 – Dramamine

Roan woke up in bed, and was so warm and cozy he decided he wasn’t getting up. Except things started nagging at him, little things he couldn’t quite dismiss as easily as he wanted to. Like the fact that the body cuddling him was a bit too large to be Dylan, and also, smelled ever so faintly of tiger.

Paris would do this a lot, not so much snuggle against him as cover him like a blanket. He rather liked it actually, he loved the smell of him and the feeling of his weight, the way his warm skin felt against his. It felt like Paris was trying to protect him even in their sleep, and while he would normally balk at the idea of anyone protecting him, he still liked the comfort of it.

He was aware this was all wrong, yet at the same time he actually didn’t give a shit. “Am I supposed to think I’m dead or something? ‘Cause you know, even if I believed in an afterlife, I know this wouldn’t be it.”

“Why?” Paris asked, in his teasing voice. “Am I not divine?”

He sighed heavily, although he felt a twinge in his chest. That was exactly the kind of cheesy joke Paris would make. “I’m brain damaged, is that it? I had an aneurysm, and a section of my brain has died. Now I think you’re here, or I’m imagining it as a comforting fantasy.”

Paris stroked his hair and nuzzled his neck, which was familiar and nice. “You have to be cynical about everything, don’t you?”

“I know this is my subconscious or unconscious, or a hallucination. I’m just wondering how bad it is.”

“How would I know? I’m you.”

“Good point.” Paris’s hand was on his stomach, so he picked it up and kissed his palm before letting it fall back on his chest. “I miss you.”

“I know sweetheart,” Paris replied sympathetically. “But you have Dylan now. You love him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” It was funny, but while he could easily lie to himself, he couldn’t while he thought he was talking to Paris. “But not like you. It’s different.”

“It would be. But you be good to him. Hear me?”

“I hear you. But if I’m a drooling vegetable, there’s no way I can be.”

“Like that would ever happen to you,” he said, giving him a quick kiss on the nape of his neck. “You’re a superhero, remember? You can only die on television.”

Roan was puzzling over that cryptic comment when he woke up, not overly surprised to be in an uncomfortable bed, surrounded by the horrible smells of a hospital.

But having Tank in his room? Yeah, that was a surprise.

For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming, but then Tank noticed he was awake, and said, “Bon jour, Roan. How you feeling, ‘ey?” Tank had started growing facial hair that looked like a combination between a soul patch and a goatee; it was hard to say if it was intentional or accidental. It was also, oddly enough, a reddish gold, whereas the unruly mop of hair on his head was a sort of a polished cedar color. He was standing up near the back corner of the room, and it looked like he’d been checking a text message on his phone. Only now, with this new weird facial hair, did Roan see an oh so slight resemblance to late Alice In Chains singer Lane Staley, although Tank was shorter, more muscular, and undoubtedly much more Quebecois (and less heroin addicted).

Roan stared at him a moment. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t seem at all offended by the slightly confrontational nature of the question. “I heard you were in the hospital, yeah? So I thought I’d drop by, see how you were doing.” He picked up a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in blue paper off the room’s lone chair. “I brought you these.”

Again, this remained so weird he wasn’t sure he was awake. But why would he dream that facial hair? “I’m not really a flower kind of gay.”

“There’s a beer in it.” He reached into the bouquet, and slid out the top of a beer bottle, which seemed hidden by a large yellow spider mum.

“I love you.”

“I’ve visited lots of people in hospitals,” he said, putting a strange emphasis on the final syllable. “I know ways around things.” He put the bouquet down on the chair again, carefully, as if he was afraid the beer might roll out.

“Microbrew?”

He nodded. “Canadian, not that watery American piss.”

“Will you marry me?”

That made Tank grin at him, and it was oddly childlike. And unlike many hockey players, he appeared to have all his teeth. “If I was gay, I’d be all over you. I gotta thing for redheads.”

What on Earth did you say to that? He didn’t know, so he switched topics. “Where’s Dylan?” He was here, wasn’t he? What if he wasn’t here? He’d taken it for granted that Dylan would be here, but that wasn’t right, was it? Maybe this was what Paris – his subconscious – was trying to warn him about. What was in all this worry and stress for Dylan? He might come to his senses and decide that he simply wasn’t worth all this pain.

“He went to talk to a doctor I think. He wanted to -” he paused, and his face screwed up briefly, like he didn’t like the taste of the word. “- damn. If he mentioned it, I forgot. Sorry. If I’m not in game mode my attention wanders sometimes.”

“You don’t have ADD, do you?” This was a joke.

Tank shrugged, as if the question was serious. “I exhaust my concentration. Sounds funny, doesn’t it? But I focus so tightly during games it’s like I don’t wanna do it if I really don’t hafta.”

“I believe it. You have sniper like concentration.”

“Hardest part of being a goalie. It’s not guys lobbing shit at you or gettin’ in your face, it’s concentrating on a tiny, fast moving piece of rubber while noise and people and lights are all around you, and just knowing without looking too hard who your guys are and who aren’t. I’d rather catch hundred mile an hour slapshots than have to deal with a three on five with really hungry players and an angry, noisy crowd.”

This was all very interesting, mainly because Roan only knew that goalies were generally considered to be nuts; he had no idea of their perspective on things. As he sat up, he said, “Your reflexes are great, you know. I think they’re equal to mine.”

Again, that unselfconscious grin. Roan couldn’t help but think of most jocks as total assholes, but there was something very likable about Tank. There was something very off-putting too, but once you got to know him it seemed like less of a worry. He was just an odd man, not scary odd (not constantly), just weird. “I’d hope they’d be better. You know how hard I’ve trained?”

Roan was going to point out he was superhuman, therefore Tank shouldn’t feel bad about a draw, but that seemed both arrogant and presumptuous, so he didn’t say anything. He simply sat up and looked at the IV drip in his arm, trying to determine if it was just saline or something more, when Roan decided to ask, “Why have you visited lots of people in hospitals? Is it sports related?”

He shook his head and scratched his arm. He was wearing jeans and a powder blue t-shirt that seemed to be advertising a seafood place in a city called Trois-Rivieres (he was guessing, because the words on the shirt were all in French), and where he scratched Roan could see both an old inoculation scar (?) and a tiny tattoo of a blue sun, with rays like starfish arms. “Sometimes. But mainly it was ’cause of my grandpa and my mom. My grandpa had emphysema that eventually killed him, and my mom got pancreatic cancer when I was a teenager, and she spent the last two months of her life in a hospital.” He shrugged again, but there was a little moment of pain in his eyes, hidden in a frown.

“I’m sorry.” Pancreatic cancer was a real bitch too. All cancers were bad by definition, but some were worse than others.

He shook his head, and the darkness that had briefly clouded his vision disappeared with the return of a friendly smile. “Nah, it’s okay. I learn things. Like how to steal meds from the supply closet. Wow, did me and my friends get high on the hospital’s dime.”

“You still do that?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know American hospitals so well.”

“Too bad. I was gonna have you go get me some Demerol.”

He tossed him a wink. “I’ll see what I can do.” He meant it too. Now that was a friend. Why he’d been adopted by a possibly crazy goalie he had no idea, but at least he was a cool guy.

The door to the room opened, and Dylan came in, looking to Tank before he noticed that he was awake and sitting up. “Roan!” he exclaimed, immediately coming to his side an embracing him in a powerful hug. He almost got tangled in his IV line.

He hugged him back, and realized that that two day’s growth of beard he had after the transformation seemed thicker. Not only that, but Dylan had a dark fuzz of stubble on his cheeks as well, which he hadn’t had earlier. When Dylan pulled back, tears glimmered in dark chocolate eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“A little drugged, but okay. How long have I been here?”

“Only since yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” He’d been out for what, twelve hours? Could he blame the drugs they gave him or not?

Before he could ask, a familiar voice said, “It should have been a lot worse.” Doctor Rosenberg came in, looking at his chart and shaking her head. “God, your luck. I’d play the lottery if I was you.” She looked up, noticing Tank. “You’re a new one.”

He must have guessed that was an invitation to introduction. “Tank Beauvais.”

“Your name is not Tank.”

“My real name is Theobald.”

She studied him for a moment. “Tank it is.” She pushed her tortoise shell glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and said, “I need to be alone with Roan for a few minutes.”

Dylan gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and told him, “I’ll be right outside.”

Roan nodded at him as he gave him a small smile and a comforting squeeze on the arms before leaving the room, Tank falling in behind him without comment. The way Dylan acted, he couldn’t help but think Rosenberg was here to give him bad news.

“What’s with the Frenchman?” Rosenberg wondered.

“He’s a goalie. I’ve been adopted by a hockey team.”

“The Falcons?”

“You know of them?”

“I’ve seen the logos. I’m not locked up in my office all the time.”

There was no help for it – he had to just come out and ask. “I had another aneurysm, didn’t I?”

She gazed at him steadily, her hazel eyes giving him nothing. “Yes and no.”

Of all possible answers, this one was the most unexpected. “Well, that’s definitive.”

She rolled her eyes and tapped the clipboard holding his chart like somehow the answers on it were his fault. “The long and the short of it is you probably did have an aneurysm, but beyond the burst blood vessels in your eyes, your blood pressure upon arrival, and initial head CT readings, we can no longer prove it.”

He mulled over everything she said carefully before answering. “Huh?”

“You’ve totally recovered.”

He considered this again. Yes, he was drugged. “Umm … didn’t I fully recover last time?”

“You weren’t brain damaged, but you did suffer some after-effects. Now -” she shrugged with her hands, almost flinging the clipboard by accident. “Well, fuck me sideways. I don’t get these readings at all.”

It was always a little shocking when your small, grandmotherly doctor said “Fuck me sideways”. He rubbed his head, wondering if he was still dreaming. If he slapped himself, would she have him committed? “So … why I am here? I mean, if I’m all right …”

“We had to determine that. You did pass out. Besides, I wanna figure this out.” She lifted a page on the clipboard, scanned it, and then shrugged again. “I’m gonna give up, though. Life’s too short. Besides, I know you’ll wanna get out of here as soon as possible. So what I want you to do is give me the weekend.”

Lost. He felt totally lost and at sea and drugged without actually being drugged. What was going on here? “Are you speaking in riddles, or am I actually brain damaged?”

“I want to check you into Willow Creek this weekend,” she continued, as if he hadn’t actually said anything at all. Willow Creek was an infecteds only hospital, the one where Paris spent a week recovering after he first met him. “I want to run a full battery of tests: PET scan, MRI, EEG, all the acronyms. It’ll just be me and a couple of trusted assistants. Scientific American won’t get their greedy little hands on you.”

“I’m on a case, I can’t do this weekend. Why the hell do you want to poke and prod me some more? Didn’t you do that enough when I was a kid?”

“Sorry, but you’ve grown up and adapted far beyond my comprehension. I can’t wrap my head around it. I feel like a moron, quite frankly.”

He grabbed onto the only word that really alarmed him. “Adapted? Meaning what exactly?”

She shrugged with her hands again, less violently this time. “Haven’t you noticed? Evolution takes thousands of years, maybe millions, but you’re making it look like a lazy idiot. You’re adapting to your new situation, Roan, just like you adapted out of having a viral cycle.”

“That isn’t possible.” Was that why he started changing without realizing it the other night? Was he starting to adapt? That was insane. Bodies didn’t work like that – the virus didn’t work like that.

“Isn’t it? You’re the impossible man. The virus shouldn’t have incorporated into your DNA the way it did, and from there it’s just been an avalanche of impossibilities with you. Do I really need to point out that most virus children are ten years dead at your age? Or that all infected have viral cycles, except you? Come on. I think we’re both too old to dick around. You are a …” she didn’t have the word.

“Freak?” he suggested.

“Hybrid,” she replied, with an evil scowl. “If you were at all an optimist, we could say you were the best of both worlds.”

“My mother was a human and my father was a virus,” he replied sarcastically. Before she could tell him to knock it off, he held up the IV line. “So what’s this then if I’m fine?”

“Fluids. You were dehydrated and believe it or not, mildly malnourished, and probably exhausted considering the way you slept. You’ve got to remember the way your metabolism changes even during partial shifts; it’s playing holy hell with every system in your body. You probably need ten hours sleep on days of change, and fuck knows how many calories, maybe ten thousand or so. You can’t act like it’s just a normal day, because it’s not.”

“Could it have been a migraine?”

She shook her head, but then shrugged. “Can’t actually rule that out. We don’t know for sure how the change effects your migraines, so it’s possible there could be a trigger mechanism. But dehydration is definitely a trigger, so keep your fluids up, damn you.”

He dry washed his face, trying not to notice how hot and itchy his beard was, and wondered why he was so mad. What was he mad at? Her? Himself? His virus? “Am I in danger from aneurysms anymore?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I think you started having one, and it stopped.”

“Stopped?”

She nodded. “Makes no fucking sense to me either. Maybe it was just some weird kind of seizure, I can’t rule that out either.”

“It hurt like fuck.”

“No reason a seizure couldn’t.”

That was a fair point. “But you don’t think it was.”

“No. I think you almost had an aneurysm, and your body fought back. But since that’s illogical and can’t be proven, that’s pure speculation on my part.”

This was frustrating, and threatened to make his head start hurting all over again. He noticed that there was one of those reusable shopping totes sitting on the floor beside the chair – Tank had accidentally been blocking his view of it. (Goalies made better doors than windows, even off the ice.) Were there clothes in it? He was pretty sure there was, as he thought he recognized the color of his zombie t-shirt (burnt orange). Dylan brought clothes, and Tank brought beer. He knew some great guys. If Dylan also included his cell phone (he seriously needed to call Holden if he’d lost a day), he’d have to marry him later today.

“You’ve already tuned me out, haven’t you?” Rosenberg asked. It wasn’t accusatory, just weary.

“Am I going to drop dead of an aneurysm or not?”

“I don’t know. You could live until one hundred or die in sixty seconds; there are limits to adaptation. That’s why I want to get you into Willow Creek and scan the shit out of you.”

He got out of bed, taking a moment to steady himself, and then hauled the IV stand across the room with him as he walked to the bag of clothes. Yeah, he was wearing a stupid paper gown and his ass was hanging out, but Rosenberg had pretty much seen every inch of him so it didn’t matter. As he stepped into his jeans, he told her, “I have a case to finish. Once I’m done … fine, Willow Creek. But only to find out how much of me is still Human.”

“Don’t be an asshole. You’re Human.”

“Yeah, a Human who can change into a lion and stop his own aneurysms.”

“Speculation on my part,” she replied archly. “Don’t go on a self-pity trip.” He ripped off  the paper gown and tossed it aside before pulling on his shirt. “Holy hell, when did you get so many tattoos?”

“A weird side effect of my self-pity trips. What did you say to Dylan? He looked upset.”

Here she paused, long enough to feel a warning spasm in his gut. What had she said? “I might have mentioned the thing about not knowing if you were all right or on the precipice.”

“So he thinks I could drop dead any minute. Terrific. Did you have to scare my boyfriend? Was it emotional blackmail to get me into Willow Creek?”

He got the evil scowl again, but probably for a good reason. Doctor Rosenberg could be a huge pain in his ass, but she usually wasn’t that manipulative. “I was thinking aloud. I’m worried about you, you stupid prick. And I’m not alone.”

He had to give her that. He was kind of worried too. In theory, this should have been good news. Maybe he wasn’t about to drop dead, maybe his head wasn’t going to implode.

So why didn’t it feel like good news?