Page 52 of Hush, Little Baby

“I’ll call it in,” Constantine replies. His voice sounds like it is coming from the other end of a hallway.

I keep my eyes closed, even when I hear a rustling noise.

“Here,” Constantine says after a moment. “These are the prescription ones. This one was in the bathroom. This one was on his nightstand. This one was in a weekly organizer, but only three compartments had anything in them.”

Nikolaus’s hand does not leave my hair. “Read me the labels.”

And he does.

I know the names, but they sound wrong in his mouth. Clinical and exposed and adult. Too adult for the place my head has gone. I don’t want to think about dosages or refills or side effects or which pills I sometimes skip because I want to stretch them until payday. I don’t want to think about pharmacies or insurance or the stupid panic of counting tablets in a bottle and trying to figure out whether my body can afford to be less sick for a week.

Nikolaus’s fingers stroke from my hairline to the crown of my head.

Again and again.

And again.

“You’re all right,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if it’s for me or someone else.

Constantine lowers his voice. “There are two that say morning. One with food. One says twice daily. One says night. I photographed the bottles and the paperwork. I can send everything to the doctor before we board.”

“Do that,” Nikolaus says. “I don’t want any guesswork. Not with him.”

With him.

Me.

I am the him.

The person they are discussing like I am fragile and complicated and also not responsible for fixing any of it.

That should feel bad. I know it should, but all it feels like is sinking deeper into warm water.

Nikolaus’s thumb slides behind my ear again, and I nuzzle closer before I can stop myself.

His voice drops. “Oh, little one.”

My whole body stills.

For one second, the floaty place flickers with alarm.

Little one.

It should make me snap back. It should make me sit up and glare and say I’m not little, I’m not, I’m not, because I am twenty-five and chronically exhausted and uninsured and kidnapped and absolutely not a child.

But the words don’t come.

They don’t even get close.

Instead, I hide my face in his lap, because the shame is too big, but the praise-warmth is bigger.

Nikolaus makes another low, pleased sound, and his palm cups the back of my head. “All right,” he says softly. “No more questions for him right now.”

“I noticed,” Constantine replies, equally quiet.

The television keeps murmuring its bright little nonsense into the room. Someone is singing about berries. The song is soft and repetitive, and Nikolaus’s lap is warm, and his fingers keep moving, and for a few minutes, I don’t have to be a person who knows how bad everything is.

Constantine continues sorting things on the table. “This one was with the pain reliever,” he says. “No prescription label. Over-the-counter, probably. There was a heating pad near the bed, too.”