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A gasp rips out of my throat and I drop the cookie, crumbs spraying when it hits the ground. Sunday doesn’t flinch when I lunge toward him, expression completely vacant, scalpel clutched tightly in one tattooed hand.

The other palm oozes a pool of crimson, rolling off his fingertips and dripping with a steady pat-pat-pat. I have no idea how long he’s been like this, but the toe of his checkered sneaker is stained, red bleeding into white.

“Sunday…did you slip or something?” I ask with concern, picking up his hand and peeling his fingers back from their clawed position. I try to get a look at the cut, but there’s so much blood, all I achieve is painting my own fingers with it.

I move quickly, grabbing the first-aid kit from the wall. The slickness on my fingers makes my grip slip, the box hitting the floor with a hard smack and spilling its contents. Still, Sunday doesn’t react.

I throw a worried look up at his face, stooping to grab a roll of bandages and some sterile dressing pads. Ripping the dressings open with my teeth, I stuff them into his palm and encourage him to close his fist, coiling my fingers around his, willing him to flex with me. I meet some resistance, but eventually, he does.

“Hurts,” Sunday mumbles, pulling my attention back to his face. I didn’t notice the spiderwebbed red in his eyes earlier, now livid against the white of his sclera. Motionless, though. He’s not blinking.

Something primitive rumbles in the back of my head.

Something isn’t right.

“Sunny?” I call, and his eyes shift slightly as his other hand tightens on the scalpel.

Without looking away from his face, I reach out slowly, keeping my other hand wrapped around his bloodied fist. My fingers slide against his, trembling.

“I need you to drop that. Please.” Please listen to me.

He doesn’t, his knuckles white from the death grip he has on the handle of the blade. Panic slices through me, coldness dripping down my spine.

This isn’t normal.

I do something I shouldn’t, not when I haven’t practiced it. Feeling energy on the surface of someone’s skin is one thing, but I’ve never used my magic in this way. I push it, gently, from my hands and into his body, probing, searching.

Two things happen simultaneously: my magic spools back into me hard enough that my hand falls away from Sunday, and he releases a gasp. I move my foot out of the way just in time as the scalpel drops to the ground, clattering away.

Sunday’s breath saws out of him as he blinks rapidly, gaze dropping to my bloodstained hands.

“Fuck! Are you bleeding? What happened?” Sunday wheezes with wide eyes, flipping my hand over and inspecting it for damage.

“No! No, it’s you. You’re bleeding,” I say quickly, pulling his wrist forward and peeling back the edge of the dressing. It looks shallower than I thought. A bandage should be okay if he can keep his hands still for a few hours.

He looks down at his hand like it’s attached to somebody else. Confusion flits across his features, creating little valleys between his brows as they pinch together.

He doesn’t remember doing it.

“I…yeah. Must’ve…it was an accident.” He yanks his hand out of my grip, turning away and collecting the blade from the floor.

His hackles rise as he walks back toward the workbench, shoulders broadening and rolling forward as he hurriedly tries to pack his stuff up one-handed. I help him, halfheartedly mopping up dead animal juices and feathers in silence.

I grimace as I scoop up the soiled rags and throw them into the trash. There’s a sink in the room, so I wash my hands three times vigorously before hauling Sunday over to clean the blood off his hands too.

He hisses when I prod at the wound, and I mutter an apology.

“Do you remember doing that?” I ask, blocking his way as he tries to leave the room.

He falters, glaring at me with a look that doesn’t mask the fear behind his eyes.

“It was an accident,” he says firmly, picking at the peeling paint of the doorframe. There’s a slight twitch to his mouth as he angles his head up and slightly to the left. A defensive tell, but why? What is he hiding from me?

“Do. You. Remember.” I say every word slowly. He’s lying about something. I don’t think the things going missing are his only problem.

I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, watch his eyes flick away before coming back to me.

“I’m coming home with you.” I grab his uninjured hand, unhook his jacket from the back of the door, and pull him out of the room.