Page 60 of Redline Baby

He slides off the barstool.

We move through the room, and I catch some people watching us. Especially his friends.

We move into the corridor.

At the far end is a fire-exit door with a push bar.

The corridor is otherwise empty.

I turn to face him.

My back finds the wall, and I settle my weight against it, arms loose at my sides, posture open and unhurried. Kit stands in the center of the corridor under yellow light that makes him look more exhausted than the bar ever allowed.

"I know you've missed more than a month of therapy," I say.

Shock flashes across his face. His lips part.

"Allie's worried," I continue. "I'm worried too."

Kit's response is immediate.

Rehearsed.

"Okay, first of all..." He holds up his good hand, index finger extended. "I've been busy. And second, therapy's great, I'm a huge fan, very pro-therapy, but it's not like I'm skipping chemotherapy. It's talk. I can talk to people for free. I talk to Ni. I talk to Dex, Sol, Allie. I talk to the guy at the gas station. Very cost-effective."

Another finger.

"And third, it's really not a big deal. At all. Seriously. I've had colds that were more consequential. I'll reschedule. Next week. Maybe the week after."

I wait.

I let the deflection complete its arc. Let the words land. My back stays against the wall. My arms stay at my sides. My eyes stay on his face.

I wait.

Silence.

Kit opens his mouth again. Nothing comes.

His heel stops tapping. The corridor goes completely still.

"I want you to reschedule by tomorrow," I say. "If money is part of the problem, I'll help."

"That's not it!"

I don't answer. Kit looks down, slowly. His whole body goes still for a second.

"Okay," he says quietly.

I push away from the wall and step toward him, close enough now that I can see the fine tremor still running through his good hand.

"Good boy."

The words come more easily this time than they did at the hospital. I know exactly what I'm saying. His entire body answers first. Breath catching. Eyes going wide and wet all at once. He stays quiet.

Doesn't reach for a joke. Doesn't reach for anything.

"I need you to hear something before we go back in there," I say.