Page 58 of Fool Moon First Aid

Ethan. I reach out through our shared bond, seeking clarity. Tell me about when you met Ava.

The reluctance in his mental voice is clear. Can’t keep it to myself, can I? he grumbles.

No, Tyler interjects sharply, a hint of impatience in his tone. You selfish bastard.

Fine, but we just got a call, so I’ll make it quick. Ty, you drive, Ethan instructs. All right, I used to sneak over to that ice-cream shop on Merger Ave every time my dad sent me for a haircut. My little act of rebellion was getting ice cream.

The point? Tyler urges, cutting through Ethan’s nostalgia. No one cares about sneaking in some forbidden ice cream.

I met her there. She sassed me, Ethan rushes out, a smile audible in his tone. She dared me to bite her.

Ethan’s revelation weighs heavily on me, sparking a cascade of thoughts and a surge of curiosity. I turn to Ava, my movement quick and instinctive, driven by a sudden need to understand more. A suspicion takes hold, weaving through my thoughts, intertwining with both logic and intuition. This suspicion, elusive yet insistent, compels me to look closer, to question what lies beneath the surface of Ethan’s confession and its implications for us all.

“You didn’t,” I murmur, the words escaping into the still air around me like a whispered secret.

I didn’t. Ethan’s voice echoes through our bond, his confession hanging in the air like a delicate mist. But I nicked her finger. The admission sends a ripple through our connection—a momentary silence that swells with significance.

With a deep breath, I retreat inward, severing our link with a decisive flick of my consciousness. My eyes close, shielding me from the world as I dive into the depths of my mind. There, amidst the swirling vortex of my thoughts, everything clicks into place, like a puzzle completing itself in the dim light of realization.

The digital labyrinth of the hospital’s records beckons—a siren’s call to my curiosity. I log on and navigate through Mystic’s files with a familiarity that speaks of countless nights spent under the glow of a computer screen, updating charts and files. Technically, Ava falls under my care, a justification that threads through my actions like a thin silver line in the murky waters of morality.

Diving deeper than the usual medical records, I seek out the untouched segments of information. The absence of blood work in our initial examination now strikes me as serendipitous. When Mystic’s files offer no revelations, I shift to Mercy Med with a mix of apprehension and nostalgia. My old credentials, a remnant of my past life, unlock the gates, reminding me of the challenges I once faced for being different.

With caution leading my actions, I request Ava’s complete medical history, preparing for any consequences. Her life unfolds in the digital realm, a narrative stretching from her first cry to the present. I sift through the records, seeking the untold stories hidden in the mundane details of medical data.

The lore of our kind, woven from the threads of birth and transformation, casts a long shadow over my search. Spiritkin tread a fine line between two worlds, but it is the fated bonds with humans that bear the weight of our most poignant tales of loss and survival. A mere nick, an accidental brush with our true nature, can alter destinies.

And I suspect that Ethan didn’t turn our Ava but merely woke something dormant inside of her.

Ava’s birth records capture my attention, her first moments marked by the light of a full moon. The notes on her delivery hint at an innate calmness that belies the chaos of birth. Her introduction to the world, under the watchful eyes of the lunar deity, feels like a silent nod to our entwined fate.

The term cyanosis leaps from the page, a clinical descriptor for her transient journey into this world, but beneath the sterile lines of medical jargon, a story unfolds—a narrative woven from the very essence of spiritkin lore. The cold, unwelcoming embrace of her first cradle, a sterile bassinet, now seems like a mere backdrop to the unfolding mystery of her true nature.

I read on…

Lunar Affinity: Ava displayed an unusual reaction to the full moon’s light. Her eyes opened briefly and seemed to reflect the moonlight with a subtle, silvery sheen. This was noted as an atypical yet benign neonatal reflex.

Temperature Regulation: Ava’s body temperature was slightly higher than the average newborn’s but within a safe range. It was stable throughout the initial examination and did not require any intervention.

Demeanor: Despite the common tendency for newborns to cry upon birth, Ava was notably serene, exhibiting a quiet attentiveness unusual for her age. Nurses attributed this to the tranquil atmosphere of the birthing room, enhanced by the full moon’s light.

Physician’s Remarks: Ava Martinez’s birth was largely normal with excellent APGAR scores, indicating good health. The minor peculiarities observed are documented for future reference but are not immediately concerning. Recommended routine neonatal care and monitoring.

Lost in thought, I find myself tracing the contours of my teeth with my tongue—a habit that surfaces in moments of deep reflection. I allow myself one final sweep through the notes, desperate for clarity amidst the confusion. Pulling away from the screen, I glance at Ava. Her calmness stands in stark contrast to the whirlwind of questions within me. She rests, peaceful and oblivious, her steady breathing a quiet melody in the stillness. The slight parting of her lips, her eyelids fluttering with dreams, suggests a vulnerability that tugs at my heart.

The ordinary nature of her birth at Mercy Med, deemed unremarkable by human standards, gnaws at me. At Mystic, the very air thrums with the secrets of lineage, where under a different watchful gaze, her entry into the world could have been heralded as a sign of dormant spiritkin blood.

Turning back to the glare of my computer, I feel a momentary sting in my eyes. My next objective crystalizes with urgency—to uncover the secrets hidden within her mother’s medical history. But access is denied, a digital sentinel blocking my way, prompting an impatient rhythm from my fingers against my thigh. It’s time to delve deeper, to unearth the truths that lie buried.

After twenty minutes of relentless digital navigation, I finally pierce the veil of secrecy surrounding Isabel Martinez-Thompson and access the nurses’ notes. Her name lights up my screen, her image—a mirror reflection of Ava—smiles back, bridging two worlds. A chill of realization sweeps over me, an uncanny feeling of being observed, as though Isabel’s spirit hovers close by, watching my every move.

As I unravel the narrative hidden within Nurse Emily Gockley’s meticulous notes, the mystery of Isabel Martinez-Thompson’s insistence on solitude during Ava’s birth begins to unfold. The deliberate exclusion of Christopher Thompson, Ava’s father, from this pivotal moment paints a complex picture, each detail a deliberate brushstroke on a canvas of secrecy.

Leaning back, I catch myself pinching my lip in deep thought. The nurse’s observations, usually dismissed as routine, now reveal an enigma that hints at a deeper, yet obscured, truth. Isabel’s choices and the secrets she fiercely guarded stir a whirlpool of questions in my mind, but the essence of her actions, the core of her fate, remains tantalizingly out of reach.

With a cautious sign-off, I step back from the brink of my investigation, the revelations from the nurse’s notes clutched tightly to my chest as I navigate the murky waters of understanding. The room around me, once a haven of silence, now feels laden with an oppressive air, as if the very walls are pressing in with the weight of untold stories.

What secrets did Isabel Martinez-Thompson guard so fiercely, and why was Ava’s father exiled from witnessing the moment of her birth? All of this leads me to believe the impossible.

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