Page 54 of Fang

I notice the way Alice’s eyes linger on Scalpel for a fraction longer than necessary, the subtle softening around her mouth when he speaks. Interesting. I file this observation away, continuing to push Rory toward the bed.

“Alice will be your full-time nurse,” Scalpel explains. “She’s worked with me for several years in Dallas and knows how to deal with your condition.”

“Among other things,” Alice adds with a smile that reaches her eyes. “I hear you’ve had quite a journey.”

Rory returns her smile, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Alice takes over and positions the wheelchair beside the bed while Scalpel moves to the other side, already reaching for a tray of IV equipment. The choreography of their movements suggests a long-established partnership—Scalpel gathering a few more supplies while Alice gets ready to insert a wicked-looking needle, neither needing to ask the other for assistance.

The room contains equipment I recognize from our research into Rory’s condition—a state-of-the-art dialysis machine dominating one corner, its tubes and filtersmeticulously arranged. Beside it stands an array of monitors for tracking vital signs. IV stands, medication pumps, and emergency equipment line one wall, while another holds cabinets stocked with supplies. A small refrigerator hums quietly, likely containing temperature-sensitive medications.

“Big poke,” Alice says to Rory, her tone professional but kind. She finishes up and smiles at her patient. “Good job! We’ll can start your treatment immediately. Based on your last dialysis session timing, you’re well overdue for another round.”

“Thanks,” Rory says, smiling at the pretty nurse.

As Alice and Scalpel check Rory’s vitals, I catch another glance between them—her hand lingering on Scalpel’s forearm, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that transcends their professional interaction. So that’s how it is. I wonder if he’s already claimed her.

“The dialysis machine is a newer model than the one in Mexico,” Scalpel explains as he begins connecting sensors to Rory’s chest. “More efficient filtration, less strain on your system.”

“And we’ve got backup power,” I add, gesturing to the specialized circuits visible along one wall. “Generator kicks in automatically if there’s an outage. Nothing’s shutting down your treatment.”

Mina stands at the foot of the bed, her posture rigid with residual tension. Her eyes track every movement Alice makes, assessing, evaluating. I understand her trepidation—after years of trusting no one, surrendering her brother’s care to strangers must be stressful.

Alice seems to sense this, looking up to meet Mina’s gaze directly. “I know this is hard,” she says simply. “But I promise you, I’m good at what I do. And I care about doing it right.”

The straightforward statement, devoid of platitudes or false reassurance, visibly relaxes Mina’s shoulders. She nods once, a gesture of provisional trust.

Alice turns her attention to Rory.“Any pain or discomfort from the journey? Be honest. It helps us treat you properly.”

“My left side hurts,” Rory admits. “And I’m dizzy when I sit up too fast.”

Scalpel nods, making notes on his tablet. “Expected, given the circumstances. We’ll adjust your medications accordingly.” His clinical detachment is somehow reassuring rather than cold—the certainty of expertise.

I watch as they work in tandem, Alice preparing the medication while Scalpel checks Rory’s blood pressure. Alice’s movements are precise and gentle. Mina continues to relax as she observes Alice’s work.

“You’re good at this,” Mina tells her.

“Lots of practice,” Alice responds with a small smile. “And motivation to minimize discomfort. I had a good mentor.” She glances at Scalpel again, that same flicker of something more than professional respect evident in her expression.

As the dialysis machine begins its quiet work, its digital display showing the flow of Rory’s blood through the filtration system, I notice Mina’s expression slowly transforming. The hard edges of fear and vigilance soften into something approaching relief as she watches her brother receive proper medical care, perhaps for the first time in years. Sure, the cartel kept him alive, but we don’t know anything about what they were doing. It could have been subpar care.

“Thank you,” Mina says quietly, the words directed at no one in particular and everyone at once.

Alice adjusts the flow rate on the machine, her attention never wavering from her task. “We’ll run this cycle for about fourhours,” she explains. “Then you’ll need to rest. Tomorrow we’ll establish a regular schedule, depending on your labs.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Mina says immediately.

“It would be better if he could sleep,” Alice says.

“You need to get some shut-eye too,” I say, wrapping an arm around Mina’s waist.

“You’re probably right,” she says.

“Let him rest. We can check on him in the morning. Alice and Scalpel will take good care of you,” I tell Rory, who already looks more comfortable against the clean sheets than he did when we found him in that cartel hospital.

As I turn to leave, I catch Scalpel’s eye. A silent understanding passes between us—the job isn’t finished. We’ve still got to find a way to help Rory. He can’t spend his life in a hospital bed. Scalpel knows this, so he’s going to research cutting edge clinical trials to see what options we have. I hope he finds something.

My hand finds the small of Mina’s back as I guide her down the hallway toward my bedroom. My fingers register the tension in her muscles. The adrenaline crash is coming. I can feel it in my own limbs, the heaviness that follows survival, the strange emptiness when threat recedes. I unlock my door before stepping aside to let her enter.

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