Diana had turned toward the door again, and Jordan assumed she felt the conversation was over as she turned to leave Jordan’s room. She pulled the door closed behind her as she exited, but he had warped it with his earlier abuse and it smacked against frame with a loud crack, like a wooden bat snapping against bone, and he remembered the sound of another door slamming against a doorjamb.
He was seventeen, the sun was shining, and he was coming home early. Several colleges were already taking an interest in him due to both his athletic abilities and his grades. He was looking forward to talking it over with his mother.
He was striding down the street toward their small bungalow and saw the door wide open. He dropped his books and sprinted the last twenty feet, bursting through the doorway. He heard the sound of feet running across the kitchen, then the slam of the back door. He stopped to survey the living room. The furniture was splintered, the lamps shattered – nothing was whole in the entire room. As he rushed through kitchen, all he saw was broken glass covering the floor. He found his mother in her bedroom, lying halfway out of the closet, her body broken. Torn clothes filled the room, the curtains were pulled down leaving the blinds sideways, and the mirror on the dresser was shattered. She was still breathing, but the position her body was in shouldn't have been possible. She was unconscious.
He ran to his sister's room, where everything was smashed. His sister wasn't there. In his own room, everything was shredded, splintered, gone – then he saw something move. It might have been a rat, they lived in the poorer section of town, after all, but it wasn't an animal. It was his six-year-old sister, Kira, naked, battered, and broken. She was alive, and when he touched her she screamed, then looked up at him, her face covered with bruises. Her arm was at a horrible angle, and he couldn't see her legs under the broken pieces of Jordan’s bookcase that she hid in. He pulled off his shirt to cover her and tried to pick her up, but she whimpered, then started crying. He held her, reaching for a phone. It was dead. Fortunately, one of his neighbors, a younger boy who’d been a fan of Jordan’s athletic prowess, had picked up the books Jordan left on the front stoop, and he heard the boy enter the house. Jordan kissed his little sister's hair and tried to figure out whether he could carry her into his mother's room. The ten-year-old boy who brought his books in to him was wide-eyed, mouth agape. Jordan was ashamed. He had been a hero to this boy, but he sat now completely ineffectual against the horror.
The boy was going to run, but Jordan's quiet voice stopped him. "Wait – call the police, and an ambulance, for Mom and Kira." Kira was still whimpering, and he closed his eyes as he rested his lips against her hair. He hoped her arm was all that was broken…
Diana was squeezing his hand. He shook his head abruptly, trying to ground himself back in the present. He was twenty-four now, that had been nearly ten years ago. One last memory came back to him. The note his father had left him. “Your world is glass, boy. Watch your back.” After that, his father was gone, no amount of searching had found him, but he still watched for him around every corner, behind every door.
"You okay?" Diana asked, looking at him with concern.
"Why?" he asked, stalling for time while he tried to figure out what he'd been doing while the scene intruded in his mind. He hadn't had a flashback like that for years. His control was slipping. He'd have to pull himself together with an intense workout later.
She moved closer to him and he found it unnerving. He leaned away from her.
"You can't hide that one from me, Jordan. I saw you staring off into space and… remembering something. You were, weren't you?"
Jordan looked at her blue eyes, straight nose, French lips, arched brows, black hair. He turned away.
"If you’re as understanding as you pretend to be, you'd know better than to ask questions." He picked up the guitar, put the headphones on, and closed his eyes.
Diana sat for a moment, and he felt her watching him. He had quite clearly shut her out. Her presence was no longer desired. She stood up, but he didn’t move. She apparently decided he wouldn't budge and left, closing the door gently behind her.
* * *
The next morning, Jordan's bare feet padded softly down the hallway. He paused at Diana's door to listen but heard nothing. It was five a.m., so he wasn't surprised, but he felt safer knowing he wouldn't have to deal with her as he got things ready to track Carl down. Carl had left the house in the evening, with black sweats on that would be easy to hide in the bushes when he changed. Jordan stepped silently down the stairway and into the kitchen. He set a pot of fresh juice, honey, and spices on the stove toheat. He’d packed the saddlebags the night before to avoid making enough noise in the kitchen to wake Diana up. He had grown accustomed to simply getting up and going out to find Carl in the morning, and Diana's presence was an intrusion to his schedule. Having prepared thoroughly the night before, while she was upstairs in her room, there was nothing to do now but wait for the juice to heat. He stared at the pot of liquid, willing it to boil. His jaw set slowly, and he finally reached for the thermos and set it on the counter without making a sound.
Restless, he went to the closet, where he had placed a pair of socks and his boots. He pulled his gun down from its hidden perch on the upper ledge, put the socks and boots on, then, checking to see that the magazine was full, he slipped the gun back in the holster and strapped it to his chest before putting his coat on over it. He returned to the kitchen and poured the now-hot cider into the thermos, tossing several scoops of whey protein powder in as well, then sealed it and stepped softly across the slate-tiled entry to grasp the silver doorknob. Turning it slowly, he opened the door and stepped outside, carefully closing it behind him. As he headed toward the stable, he heard something move along the edge of the tree line. He pulled the gun from out, switched the safety off, drew the slide back, and released to load it as he crept quietly toward whatever creature stirred in the bushes, pressing the floodlight control as he passed the garage. He heard a groan and started running, lowering the gun so it pointed down and away from himself. As he neared the trees he saw the naked body and swore.
He dropped to his knees next to the man. "Carl!"
Carl rolled over slowly, gasping in pain. He was naked, pale and covered with goosebumps in the chill of the early morning.
Jordan watched in shock as Carl's hand fluttered across a deep wound in his upper thigh. Blood seeped from the ragged hole, painting a brick-red path down his leg. Jordan couldn’t tell if there was a rhythm or not, which would indicate an artery, but he was grateful to see the blood seeping slowly. "Carl – talk to me! What happened?" Jordan put the gun back in its holster while Carl's eyes rolled slowly upward and he collapsed against Jordan.
"Shit!" Jordan swore, then peeled Carl's eyelids back to look into his pupils, which contracted slightly in the shadowy light. Jordan whipped off his shirt and tied it around Carl’s leg. He checked Carl quickly for broken bones, then rolled him onto his side so he could lift him.
Carl stirred again. "Jordan," he rasped. "Put me in the car, get some clothes, and... drive me down. I've lost... a lot of blood. I don't… know how much time I've got. An ambulance will... take too long." Jordan paused to take a deep breath, then went to the car and carefully set Carl down in the passenger seat. "And–"
"I got it! Shut up and stop moving!" Jordan barked, trying to control his panic. The blood seemed to pulse with every word Carl said. Sprinting to the back door of the house, Jordan grabbed a towel and some clothes from the laundry. He ran back and Carl tried to take the items from him, but it seemed that the pain stopped him. Jordan growled, then pulled a pair of shorts on over Carl's legs and pressed the folded towel over the wet shirt that was already covering the jagged hole in Carl's thigh. Then he pulled his belt off quickly and slid it around Carl's leg, moving the end around to the front and holding the buckle against the towel as he slipped the end through the buckle and drew hard on it, to press the bundle tightly against the broken vessels. Without the belt that held his wide-legged jeans up, he felt even more naked, on top of being shirtless. Jordan hated being naked, the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable, but Carl needed the belt more right now than he did. He got Carl to the car, jumped in the driver’s seat, and tore down the gravel road toward town.
* * *
At the hospital, one of the women at the desk was already busy filling out forms for a very pregnant woman, but her coworker looked up at him.
"Is this for you yourself?" She asked as she reached for a form.
"No, it's my... friend. They just took him into surgery."
"Can I get your friend's name, sir?"
Jordan leaned over the desk, whispering. "Carl... Carl Sanders."
She looked up in surprise. "Carl's here?"
"Can we just keep that between you and me?"
"Naturally, sir, we don't announce when any of the family is here for treatment.” She typed the details into her computer and glanced at the patient status. “I guess that explains why he’s headed to surgery already. Should I call his father?"
"No, I'll do that. He’ll want... more details."
She began a series of what Jordan considered inane questions 'for the record,’ one being Jordan's full name and relationship to the patient. Jordan's answers came out in exasperated breaths.
An alert blinked on her computer screen and she shook her head. "Give me just one second – I need to double check his file." She nervously ran her fingers over the keyboard, and, after a few clicks, he saw her eyes widen with concern. “Oh, no.”
"What is it?"
"He's O-positive.”
"So? …What?" Jordan blurted out.
"We're out of all O-positive blood. There was a big wreck on Highway 2 yesterday and we used what we had in multiple surgeries. The bank won't deliver more until three today. We'll have to find immediate donors. What blood type are you?"
Jordan stared at her for a moment. "Are you sure he needs blood?"
She gave him an exasperated look. “With that kind of wound, of course, he does. What type are you?"
"O-negative."
She stared at him. "Universal donor, perfect! How would you feel about saving your friend’s life?"
Jordan felt fingers crawling up his spine. "You mean… let someone slide a needle into one of my veins?"
Tilting her head, she sized him up. “Well… only if you want him to live.”
Jordan crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Where do I have to go?”
"Down the hall and to the left. Go to the desk, someone there will be able to do your intake and get things started."
Jordan soon found himself in a room where an attractive young woman with short, strawberry blond hair had him sit down and give her his name and date of birth.
She smiled at Jordan as he sat in a chair equipped for blood donation. She quickly had him lying down and hooked up to a plastic bag. She handed him a sheet of paper with a list of questions.
"I have to ask you these questions verbally as well as having you look at the sheet," she smiled, and her smooth cheeks revealed a dimple.
"I'm on file as a donor. My blood's been tested already," Jordan interjected.
Looking back at the records on her computer, she replied, “Ah… I see that. Looks like it’s been about six months since you were screened. And anyway, we have to ask these questions every time. Protocol, you know?”
Jordan nodded.
"Have you ever had sex with someone known to test positive for H.I.V?"
Jordan paused and studied the shape of her face, her breasts, her hips, wishing the girl’s scrubs were a little more form-fitting since he could tell she was hiding a fit figure beneath them. “Is there someone less attractive who could ask me these questions? An ugly man…anything?” Jordan asked playfully, in an attempt to release some of his tension. Aside from Diana – and the lady at the registration desk – this girl was the only woman he’d seen in months.
She blushed “No. Have you had sex with a member of the same or opposite sex since the last time you were screened as a blood donor?"
"No,” he admitted. “Not for too damned long," he answered.
Her face turned red, and she gave him an admonishing look. "Okay. Let me have your arm."
Jordan lifted his arm to her. She swabbed it, waited briefly for the alcohol to evaporate, slid the needle into his vein, set up his IV, and left the room, but walked back through the door a few minutes later.
"Wow! It's a good thing I came back so soon. You've almost filled that bag already."
He grinned at her again, but she was reaching for a clamp and didn't notice.
"Well, this ought to do it. They've given him plasma already, of course, but his RBC count is way down as well, so they'll be needing blood." She clamped the tube and drew the needle from his arm, placing a cotton ball on the tiny puncture and gave him the usual instructions on after care.
"Don't I get a cookie or something?"
Her dimple reappeared again as the sides of her mouth curled upward. "That's the blood bank. This is a hospital. Cafeteria’s that way, if you’re interested." She pointed down the corridor disappearing through the door with the blood. Jordan’s body didn't care for blood donation, and it usually left him weaker and dizzier than he thought it should, so he gingerly moved himself to a padded bench from the donor chair, taking a moment to regain his bearings. After a few minutes, the girl returned.
Jordan inquired, "Is he all right?"
She smiled reassuringly. "Your friend's got the best doctor here working on him. I just handle blood samples and IVs but it looks like they've got everything under control."
It was the third time Carl had been referred to as his friend. He wasn't sure if it was an appropriate word, but it seemed the safest way to describe why he was here.
Jordan left the blood donation room and made his way to the surgical waiting area. He had flipped through every magazine twice by the time someone came out to see him.
"You're the man who came in with Carl?"
Jordan dropped the magazine and jumped to his feet. An older man in scrubs, covered by a loose, white coat stood before him.
"I'm Doctor Balboa, his surgeon. He's going to be fine. We removed the bullet and we have him in recovery now. He was lucky – it nearly hit an artery. We'll move him to his own room as soon as he's awake. We have express orders on how to handle an emergency for anyone in the family, so he'll be in a fully private room once he's ready, and you can see him then. What I need to talk to you about, however, is how this happened." The man looked at Jordan sternly, and Jordan felt his face grow hot. "How did he end up with a bullet in his thigh, and wearing nothing but shorts in this weather?"
Knowing how gossip could fly in a small town, Jordan was glad the waiting room was empty. "He went out early this morning to run and when I went out to see what was up I found him lying in the bushes with a bullet in his leg. That's all I know."
The doctor shook his head. "It was a lead nose bullet. They're designed for maximum damage. Usually used for deer hunting. I see it every so often during hunting season, when someone shoots without checking to see whether he's actually got a deer in his sights or something else entirely. Like his hunting partner. Have you reported this?"
"Not yet. I was too worried about Carl."
The doctor pursed his lips. "I'll have to report it, you know. Any suspicion of wrongdoing must be reported by any doctor who treats it. Whoever shot him probably realized he'd shot a person instead of a deer and took off running. He might get a case of conscience in a few days and come in to report it, but the police will want to ask a few questions and investigate the area where you found Carl."
"Of course. I'll be glad to help any way I can." From what Carl had said, he was most likely in wolf form when he was shot, and beyond that, no one would know anything, or if they did, they wouldn't be believed.
The doctor nodded. "Good."
One of the young men who wheeled Carl into surgery when they first arrived entered the waiting area. "Your pal's been moved to 215. He's come around and he's responding well."
The doctor looked alarmed. "On whose orders? He can’t possibly be ready to be moved! Come with me.” He strode away from Jordan, the younger man following quickly after him.
"He responded thoroughly, fully awake, procedure says..." the voice trailed off as the two took a sharp left out of the waiting room.
Jordan went to the desk. "Carl's in 215?"
The attendant looked up at him. "Why don't we give the doctor a moment alone with him, and I'll let you know when you can go up."
Jordan nodded and sat down.
* * *
Carl was looking right at the door when Jordan walked in. Jordan stopped short when he saw the accommodations. So, this is what the other half lives like, he thought with disgust. It was still a hospital room, but it had a huge pull-out couch in the corner along with a double-sized oak closet next to a mirror and vanity, over which hung Hollywood dressing room style bulbs. A 60-inch flat screen T.V. stared at him from the wall opposite Carl, and there was a control panel on a metal arm at Carl's side.
"Pleasant, isn't it?"
"You even convalesce in style man."
"I plan to convalesce at home."
Jordan shook his head. "You just had a lead-nosed bullet taken out of you, and you have a pint of someone else's blood and a bunch of fresh plasma in your veins. You're not going anywhere."
"I beg to differ. I feel fine. Apparently, my recuperative powers are beyond those of mortal men," he joked cheerfully.
"That’s probably the morphine talking,” Jordan replied.
Carl shrugged, then looked serious. "I'm hoping you can help me out a bit here, Jordan. I don't want to be here. We have a guest I don’t trust at the house, I'm doing quite well, and I need to leave before they take any blood tests."
"Didn't they do that already?"
"I don't know, and I don't want to find out. As far as I can tell, standard typing and chemical tests will reveal nothing. As long as they don't put the blood under a microscope I'm fine, but there are some strange cells in my blood that might make them suspicious. You'll be answering the phone for the next week just in case. Switch the landline to voicemail when you’re out. I’m leaving; they can’t keep me."
"Okay, but you'd better do something about that I.V. first." Jordan shook his head in exasperation, then turned away. "You're the boss. You'll need to make a statement to the police, though, and they may want to question me."
"Yes, they told me that. I'll try to spare you – after all, you weren't there. Neither was I, exactly, but I'll tell them what they want to hear. Have you said anything yet?"
Jordan turned back toward Carl. "Just that you went out for a jog this morning, and when I went out to check on you I found you like that."
"Good. Perfect. I'll sort it out from there.”
"By the way, what did happen to you out there?"
Carl frowned, his lips pursed. "Hmmm, I can't rightly say, but I recall an excruciating pain in my leg, then a foggy kind of run through the trees. I remember an urgent need to get back to the house, but it was more like a den – you know how things aren't always what they should be in dreams; it’s like that. There was something crashing through the brush behind me for a short while and... and I... was on four legs.” Carl paused, surprised. “I had a tail! Jordan… I remember! Well, in a way..."
Jordan's face contorted into a grimace.
"Never mind that for now," Carl said quickly. "Could you get me something to eat? I’m famished!”
Jordan acted as if he was going to say something, then turned around and left.
Carl watched him go, his mind racing for a moment, but he could remember no more about the wolf-dream. He turned to the IV unit attached to his arm and read the label. A moment later, he pressed the button for the nurse. The young man who had brought the doctor in earlier came into the room less than thirty seconds later.
"Yes, Mr. Sanders?"
Carl knew other patients had to wait a while for a response, and it irritated him that he was so coddled. "What do I have to do to get out of here?"
The young man looked puzzled. "Well, you should stay for a while yet – that's a serious wound you have."
"But I've been given antibiotics?" he questioned, motioning to the IV.
"Of course."
"So, what could happen?"
"Well... there could be complications with the donated blood or plasma, there could be a clot, the wound could start bleeding again–"
Carl sighed loudly. "Did you use tested blood or fresh stuff?"
He paused. “I’m afraid we had to use fresh. We prefer to avoid that, but your type is rare and we had a universal donor we determined was highly reliable." He smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sanders. It’s perfectly safe. We would never have used it otherwise.”
"Okay then. I have an assistant, he can keep an eye on me and if anything happens I can be here in half an hour."
"I can’t make that decision. Talk to the doctor–"
"I'll do that."
A few minutes later, Doctor Balboa walked into the room. "What's this I hear about you wanting to leave?"
"I make a poor patient and I'd rather be at home."
"Well, normally, I'd say that any patient who wants out is just about ready to leave, but this is awfully quick. You just came out of surgery, and the anesthesiologist doesn't feel that you should be walking around yet."
"I know what signs to watch for…"
"You're not a doctor yet, Carl. Don't start acting like one." Dr. Balboa folded his arms and frowned down at Carl.
Carl shook his head. "I've got more sense than that, but you know how much better a person's own home is for a quick recovery, and I have Jordan."
"But he's not a nurse, is he?" the doctor answered, implacably.
"I don't need a nurse, I need rest. And I don't need what's in this IV."
"Yes, you do. After the IV’s done, I'll put you on oral antibiotic and some painkillers. Talk to the police officer who's on his way, let the drip finish, and we'll see how you feel then." Doctor Balboa strode from the room, ending the conversation.