"Weekly log, entry 151... this is Maxine Caulfield, October 11th, 2026, 2:43 AM."
Rain drying against the window, tracks left by racing droplets coming to life against the rhythmic red traffic lights below.
"The week has been... usual, nothing much to add."
A desk drowned in darkness, the street lamp outside throwing a strip across it and onto the opposite wall; from what's visible, the papers on the desk are neatly stacked, the pens in their proper cup, the stapler aligned perfectly, the folders labelled and color-coded. A thin PC monitor is asleep, blinking in silence.
"The new testimonies proved inadmissible for the McGrier case, but... we all saw that coming."
Although it's too dark to see, there is a painting on the wall facing the only window in the office. It's a store-bought "abstract" piece; even through the pale darkness, its prominent white splotches - among other, moodier colors - leer across the room at her as she speaks, glaring back.
A sigh. "I feel... I feel upset that the coffee machine hasn't been fixed yet, even though I... I submitted a com-plaint..."
She stops, and shakes her head at what she just said. Has it really boiled down to this? No; she can do better.
"*Ahem*... There might be some discord on the team I can't really isolate yet. That's... that's a new thing, yeah. Jun isn't being agreeable lately, he tried to hide his breakup but failed. I wonder if anyone else - noticed, they could give him advice. I've told him not to bring that to work. What else...?"
She's leaning against the wall, and turns her face to the window. The outside is indecipherable. The haze of dew makes it a jumbled mess of neon shapes; some immobile, some fleeting. A dog was barking a few minutes prior, but it seems to have fallen asleep. Or maybe its owner just pulled it inside. She couldn't hear it anymore; why would a dog stop barking like that? Did it get run over? She would've heard that, too... it's odd to her, and she forgets the phone she's holding up to her mouth for a few minutes.
"I should go home."
It feels, for a brief moment, as though she hadn't said it at all. Someone else, something else, spoke through her and relinquished control as swiftly as it had come - but she knew that it was, simply, her common sense trying to claw its way to the surface. But she doesn't want to go home. What's possibly different there, after all? The presence of a bed?
"And my PJ's."
Yeah, those too. Not to mention leftover honey-lemon chicken in the fridge, and cotton slippers, and hot chocolate... but that's where the differences end, she thinks.
"Oh... wait, there's something." She looks away from the window and into her phone's blazing screen. "I might be moving to Portland next month. New unit is opening in one of the offices there, and they need a... was it, a chief toxicologist? No, less specific... anyway, it seems like a good job. Probably pays well. I didn't ask Maoro the details. I probably will on Monday."
And with that, she taps the blue square; the recording stops, and is labelled with its date of inception. Stored away. She gives the phone a lazy swipe with her thumb, and a long stack of older recordings fly across the screen, coming to a gentle stop far before the bottom of the list. There's nothing more to say today. And without the white glow of the device now in her pocket, the room feels dark, the silence stifling. Now, she wants to go home. And she does. Leaving her office, locking the floor, taking the elevator down; the entire building is alight, but not a single inhabitant, except for herself.
Her first step over the threshold brings a pleasant curtain of crisp, cool air, still lingering with moisture from recent rainfall. She zips up her jacket and makes her way to the parking lot; distant sounds of traffic, everlasting and steady, soothe her anxiety; the parking lot isn't her favorite place, especially at this time of night. The only vehicle, a black Corolla, blinks twice as she unlocks it from her pocket, its two quaint honks splicing the wet silence surrounding the building. Maxine enters her car, slams the door shut.
"... really was fantastic, that concert was! The new Firewalk album 'Blueburn' is set to release in December this year,but if you just - can't - wait to hear more of them, and I'm with you on that, you can look out for their promo tour on…"
The radio had turned on when she'd activated her car. It's a comforting mechanism; the chatter and music in the vehicle, and the golden light flooding it, feels safe and warm. She reaches for her seatbelt; a resounding click, the car humming subtly. Ready to roll out.
"... what did you think of the new distortion pattern in Bleeding for Snakes? I - I totally feel - no, just hear me out - they could've gone easy on the reverb for that chorus-
-we know that's a synthesized chorus, and really, like, I thought it was pretty awesome how-"
A soft tap; Maxine switches the station using buttons on her steering wheel. Coming out from the office district and into a stream of traffic now; there are more cars, brighter lights. She's careful to check her corners, and allows a car to pass before pulling into the main road.
"... this year's game is gonna bring out the - most - dedicated fans to CL Field, for, uh - for the final game of the season before the Playoffs, this means we'll be seeing the Colts this Sunday on the field, we saw how they held their own against-"
Another tap to a different station; Maxine isn't a fan of football. The sport puts her on edge, and she doesn't really know why. She assumes it's always been that way, although she can't remember ever having an issue with football as a child, or even a teenager.
" ♪ ... you fill up my seeeeeenses- ♪ "
*Tap*. "God," she hisses.
She's on the highway now. Gleaming metal arches swoop over her, other vehicles at constant speeds on the lanes flanking hers, orange orbs of light above casting wide sheets onto the asphalt, zooming over their windshields like bright bubbles reflected in black water.
"... so we've heard, but how would you describe a truly well-sustained "ice zone" in the space-time continuum, as you call it?"
Her exit is coming; time to switch lanes. This used to be the bane of her driving prowess for years, until she'd suddenly gotten used to it, and she could never pinpoint the time or event that helped her get over it.
"Well Rob, in layman's terms - no offence-
Ha ha ha! None taken! I flunked high school chemistry for a reason. Be as lay as you want, man. I wanna hear it."
"Well, in essence, an ice zone would be a - a sort of, pocket - that can exist in four dimensions, where existence and reality as I describe it, in my book "Farther Planes", aren't affected by the rules that govern our - our - our, well, life, basically, so in essence you'd have a zone where things don't - where the uh, the rules of cause and effect - in the context of - in every context! In all contexts, have, essentially, been revoked…"
*Tap*. Why were these people allowed on the radio at all?
The road is thinning out again; she's off the highway and driving through a lively entertainment district, with restaurants, shopping centers, a movie theatre. This new station is just static. Maxine is running out of patience, and considers simply turning the radio off - she doesn't like the silence, so the consideration is moot, if nothing else.
*Tap.*
"...-k you for joining us tonight, Moonlit Hymns 93.3, up and coming is a listener's request, 'Promise', by Ben Howard. Enjoy."
This isn't so bad. She likes it. She takes a right turn into a twisting, winding suburb, curling like a snake into the distance, rows and rows of homes shrouded in semi-darkness. The curtains are drawn and the cracks between them show a tranquil darkness, people sleeping, dreaming. Or perhaps someone was in bed, awake. The dark could deceive those on the outside.
"And meet me there,
Bundles of flowers, we wait through the hours,
Of cold..."
What is this voice? This gentle frost that slows down the world around her? The car's sound system is taking his high-grit vocal husk through her chest, bouncing around inside and filling her up, leaking out through the eyes and nose and ears; she sways slightly, and relaxes her foot on the accelerator. It's unreasonably enchanting. Was it worth driving through? She considers parking the car to simply listen - but she needs to get home, she's tired, and hungry, and she has a doctor's appointment at eleven. Her building is in sight over the trees and slanted rooftops to her right. Another long curve, a right turn, and she'll be home.
"Winter,
shall howl at the walls,
tearing down doors
of time."
Home?
"Not now."
"Shelter, as we go."
She's on a much more open road, flanked not by drab houses, but sprawling open greens. The sun is brilliant and the sky stretches to infinity, broken only by the low skyline of a fast-approaching town in the distance. Maxine feels a rush of excitement, a nervous twinge, a tumultuous cauldron of guilt bubbling over, and an insatiable need for the trip to end, for the destination to arrive. This exhilaration is difficult to contain. She'd be home soon…
"Not. Now."
The brain always was a complex roommate. Dreaming of a completely different road, a different time, whilst driving at night wasn't the best use of her synapses. Then again, she knows if she continues to entertain it, it won't remain a dream for long.
"And promise me this,
You'll wait for me only, scared of the lonely arms…"
Surface, far below these burn."
She completes the curve, and the low light on these streets bring out the gleam of the full moon through her windshield. It's following her. Silent, stoic, like a round, obese sentinel. When was the last time she'd really looked at a full moon? She remembers being averse to it; something about the all-encompassing weight of it, she finds unnerving. But tonight, it's different. Perhaps because she's immeasurably tired, but she feels at peace with it now. She can look into it without feeling uneasy. It's a new feeling, and she forgets to listen to the lyrics for a few seconds, as she slows down the car to keep her eyes on the moon for a little while longer.
Just another right turn. Her building is in sight, and towering now. Unlike the suburban homes she passed, the building exterior is well-lit, albeit with darkened windows all the way up to the tenth floor. She drives down into the brightly-floodlit garage, parks her car carefully, using her rear camera to ensure proper alignment. She takes a few minutes to get it right, despite having trouble keeping her eyes open. What time is it…? She looks at the dashboard; 3:22 AM. A good time as any, to wait in the car for the song to finish.
"... who am I, darling to you?
Who am I?
I come alone here.
I come alone here…"
And the instruments fade out. Maxine is yet to unlatch her seatbelt. She briefly considers sleeping in the car.
"That was Promise, by Ben Howard, thank you to Alex Pines for suggesting it. Certainly is an expe-"
*Tap.* Silence now. The garage has its own cacophony to offer, if one listens closely enough. She eventually decides that sitting still any longer would lead to her passing out entirely; she cracks open the door, leaves the car behind her; it blinks twice and she pockets her key.
Garage door, building entrance. Elevator. Seventh floor. Warm golden light, and stiff silence. She can no longer hold back the urge to collapse, but she fights it until her bed is in sight. Just a few more steps.
Living alone isn't so bad. She can come home whenever she wants and has no one to answer to. Then again, if someone were waiting for her at home, perhaps concerned and worried, then she wouldn't have any excuse to stay out past 3 AM on a weekday. Can't have everything. The simple act of putting her key in the slot and turning it is loud enough to crack the dense air in the hallway, although she can hear the muted music and laughter of a sitcom playing on someone's TV behind her; she's drained enough that it takes more physical effort than usual to complete the task. That, and she's trying to be quiet, making it even slower.
She can't remember if her apartment door creaks. Does it creak? Only one way to find out - fuck, it creaks. Some grease would fix that, wouldn't it? She's been wanting to get around to it. Tomorrow. Some other time. She forgets to lock the door behind her. Kicks off her shoes and sheds her tattered old jacket, taking some care to fold it before it flops onto the kitchen counter. Just a little more, before blissful sleep. Wait - some water, perhaps? That seems like a good idea. The kitchen is to the left. Take a few steps back, and enter through the first open doorway.
Turning the light on would be an assault to her eyes. She can navigate her own kitchen. She reaches for the sink, taking small steps, and her foot trips over something large and pliable. Maxine crashes onto the floor after a few failed skips with her other foot, and groans in pain, her left elbow having taken the brunt of the fall.
"Ow - FUCK! What the shit-"
She freezes. Against the dimly-illuminated kitchen wall, pale and pearly from the moonlight through her windows adjacent to it, there's a lumpy mass on the floor. Large, hard to miss. She can make out a lean, smooth shoulder, dark skin gleaming in the little light it received, before disappearing into a thick shadow she was casting with her head. The blackened outline is humanoid, and bare; the shoulder moulds down into a neck, and on the other side, an arm and folded over the edge of a torso, which curves over buttocks and into a folded leg. Her terrified eyes follow the leg to its foot, and found it mere inches from her own. She yanks it away from the body, on instinct. Her chest is pounding, her face flushed and warm, fear paralyzing her; she slides up the second open door frame of the kitchen, cupping her elbow. Her eyes locked on the body.
There's a body in her kitchen. From what she can make out, it's an adult man, naked - seemingly dead. Even in her current state, she makes a note of the lack of blood on her floor. In fact, there aren't any signs of struggle, or a break-in - her front door was locked. Her eyes, now having adjusted to the near-darkness, can make out the shapes and shadows of the kitchen, all its appliances and tools; everything is in place. Not a hair out of sight. Which disappoints her, because she has nothing further to possibly explain the very large, very dead stranger on her kitchen floor.
But is he dead? She has to check. Gingerly, cautiously, she pokes the body a few times with her foot. Nothing. A few more times, harder. No; just as still, just as lifeless, like an unreasonably realistic marionette, strings cut. It's safe to assume that he's dead. What to do now? Call someone - of course. Who? The police?
She reaches for her phone with her uninjured arm; only upon letting go of her elbow does she realize just how much it hurts. She can't even bend her arm. Is it broken? Fractured? It hurts like hell regardless. She needs to call for help. Gently now, pull out your phone; her jeans are tight and stiff, due to her posture on the floor. The phone refuses to come out of her suffocating pocket. She doesn't have the strength to pull harder; she has to lean away from her leg, almost lie down on the floor - like the corpse in front of her - to loosen the taught fabric. Careful not to let her elbow touch the floor. There; the phone's out. Low battery, but alive nonetheless. She dials 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I -" she stops. She hasn't yet decided how to put it. It seems immeasurably difficult, and she can't tell why.
"Hello? Ma'am?"
"There's… there's someone in - in m-my apartment. I think he's dead."
Only upon speaking, on hearing the quiver in her own voice, does she understand just how terrified she is.
The kitchen tap is dripping.
*
Bright lights in the ceiling. The apartment is awake, bustling; you'd think it was barely even close to dinner time. But it's past 4 AM, and Maxine can't move too much. She's sitting on her couch, the only double-seater couch facing her TV; the kitchen has a small crowd in it, sounds of a camera clicking, gentle chatter. There's a woman in uniform standing a few feet from her, facing the closed balcony door, her arms crossed. She's looking out at whatever view the seventh floor would allow. Maxine has a headache; there's a foul feeling in her stomach, an acrid taste in her mouth. She's gripping her elbow for dear life. The sights and sounds around her feel dull, muted, distant; her eyes are dry, and blinking doesn't help. She wants to splash water on her face, but the walk to the washroom seems utterly impossible. Standing up, being on her feet, feels unattainable. Sitting up is unbearable. She wants to fall to pieces.
But there's a man sitting in front of her, sitting on an upturned crate that she usually used as a footrest while watching Netflix. She can barely focus on his face, but his mouth is moving. He's saying something that comes only as vastly distant noises. No, keep listening - yes, it's getting clearer. She gives her elbow a gentle squeeze; the pain shoots up her arm and shoulder, snapping her awake ever so slightly. Now, what's he saying?
"... Miss Caulfield. Are you with me?"
"Ye...yes."
His face is clearer now, as is the rest of him. A large man, broad shoulders, too large for what he's sitting on. His overcoat drapes over him like a cloak as he rests his elbows on his knees, his head bowed to match Maxine's eyes. Short black hair, and foreign, East Asian features. He looks concerned, worried, and when he speaks, his tone is gentle. It's a little unexpected, she feels.
"Is… is your elbow okay?" he asks. "You've been holding it since we got here. Did you hurt it?"
"I fell."
The man turns over his shoulder. "Remy!"
Another man, shorter and lankier, pokes his head out from the kitchen. "Yeah, boss?"
"See if there's an ice pack in the fridge. Or a bag of peas, or… something."
She's a little taken aback, but can't find the strength to say anything. The prospect of strangers going through her fridge isn't pleasant, but she can't even pretend to be bothered.
"Is there someone you'd like to call?" he asks. She doesn't understand the question, and when she does, she can't answer it. Someone to call? At this hour? About a corpse in her apartment?
"Parents…? Family?" He's scanning her face for a reaction, but her reddening eyes, dark circles and fallen face, dishevelled hair, all scream tired. She blinks a few times in succession, but says nothing. She's swaying slightly.
"Here, boss." The other man had walked over, and hands his superior a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes. "All I could make, she doesn't have anything better."
"Here. Ma'am? For, uh… for your elbow."
He's handing her the ice pack. She tenderly places her elbow on it; sharp, cold relief. Her arm is swollen, although it's hard to tell at this point. The cold pulls her toward consciousness a few inches further.
"I should-" Her throat too parched to speak. She clears it and tries again. "I should get some water… I need to wake up. Maybe splash some… water…"
No; she needed to drink some water, but the kitchen was blocked. She's have to make do with the washroom tap. But getting there is another task.
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead, ma'am." He stands up and offers his hand, albeit reluctantly. Maxine doesn't take it. She forces her knees to take her weight; this shouldn't be so hard. She's only a little sleep-deprived. Can't use her arms to support herself; the ice pack is too comforting to put down. Some forward momentum from rocking her torso, and she's on her feet. There - nothing to it.
She turns her head toward the back of the apartment, where the bedroom and washroom is, and a powerful dizziness eclipses her, a curtain of black spilling over her eyes; the ice pack is gone, her elbow is throbbing, her head is about to split open with pain - and the last thing she feels is the dim thud of her skull hitting hard wood. It's all over now, no more pain, no more tiredness; she is nothing, and she's comfortable.
*
"Maxine's a treasured colleague, Ray. I - Hell, I'll vouch for her. There's no way."
"Vic, I understand, but we need to rule out the possibility… I'll need you to work with me on this."
The Asian policeman, Ray, is standing under fluorescent lamps; a gleaming hallway, tiled floors, nurses walking past him, an old man in a stretcher parked by the opposite wall. Before him stands a man of equal stature, if not larger. A well-aged Caribbean face, shaved head and trimmed beard, white curls creeping around the edges. Drooping shoulders and a lazy frame, but Vincent Maoro's eyes are as sharp as the policeman's.
"Did you get an ID on the body?" he asks. They're both leaning on the wall; they've been standing there for quite some time. Both holding empty coffee cups, large. Ray shakes his head, looking down at the cold dregs running around the bottom edge of his cup. He's twirling it in his hand, making drops of coffee chase each other in circles.
"Nothing. Although it's only been a few hours, but usually it doesn't… take longer than that… unless he's not local."
"No sign of forced entry, no clothes, no struggle…" Maoro voices the abnormal circumstances they'd all been mulling over the last few hours. "And no evident cause of death either. Guess the autopsy report'll be our solace."
Ray snorts, a grin ghosting over his face. "Solace? Never heard anyone say that."
"Really? Never?"
"Never, ever."
"Haven't heard 'never ever' used either."
Low-energy chortling.
The hospital always reeked of death, but today, Ray isn't thinking about that. He's keeping too close an eye on the stale coffee lining the bottom of his cup, making it roll and splash into the thin paper fold line. This incident is too odd to even consider. He'd encountered something like it before, years ago, when a woman was found dead, naked, in someone's apartment in the dead of night; sounds identical as a blurb, but this woman's throat was slit, and the floor was red.
Not to mention, the culprit was caught at the airport, and confessed to killing her mere seconds into questioning. Not a particularly memorable case. Here, it was necessary that Maxine Caulfield be questioned… a corpse in her apartment, with her being the only resident and no eyewitnesses to confirm her time of arrival…
But he doesn't feel the same way about her, as he does with the usual suspects. Yes, she's an investigator herself - she's had a prolific career in Seattle, specializing in a few forensic focuses. A good reputation, well-behaved, nothing but compliments from her peers - hell, even a clean driving record. A woman in her thirties couldn't be cleaner, especially in a profession like this. But even beyond that, she seems strangely disconnected from all this - as though she were neither innocent nor guilty, but an indescribable third concept, some surreal state of being that stood outside the realm of functioning life. He doesn't feel like suspecting her, or even questioning her. He doesn't want to be near her. It isn't fear, or contempt; it's an odd sense of purity that he doesn't want to interact with, lest it be tarnished. Like a room in a museum, so vastly different from the outside, so clean and untouched, that anyone wearing dirty shoes and crossing the threshold would shatter its presence.
It's a juvenile reaction. Overly-imaginative first impression. No one is pure. No one is holy, or untouchable. Caulfield might be uncommon, but she's far from exceptional. Definitely not in the eyes of the law. He feels a sudden surge of anger at himself for even entertaining these ideas. Clearly too tired. Definitely need to wake the fuck up, and stop being a stupid romantic.
"I'm gonna get another coffee, you want one?" he asks his companion, who's casually scrolling on his phone.
"I'll come with you. Need to stretch my legs anyway."
And they both begin a walk. There's a baby crying somewhere; they pass rooms with people in beds, some groaning, others talking quietly with their friends, family, their doctors and nurses… hospital staff are stiff in their gait and rigid in their gaze. Their movement is a far cry from the lazy swagger that Ray and Maoro have adopted. There are windows in the nearest waiting room, people anxious to be called for tests and checkups. Brilliant golden light falls in strips over faded blue carpet, hiding some obviously horrid tile choices. Ray catches a glimpse of an old man sitting against the window, his wispy white hair blazing like strands of hot fire against the stark sunlight. Maoro's reading the faces of those waiting indefinitely for a doctor to take them in; are they scared? Impatient? Worried? Or angry? So many combinations…
"So what's it like? Working with Caulfield."
Maoro's a little surprised at Ray's curiosity; he isn't usually one for showing interest in people beyond their practical use, if any. Or perhaps this was a veiled version of just that. He didn't mind, regardless.
"Uh… it's, good, she's very effective."
"I did look her up after we admitted her. She's impressive."
Maoro's not hiding his assumptions any more. "What's got you so curious about our Maxine?"
"I dunno." Ray misses the obvious jab by a wide mile. "She seems… odd."
"Odd."
"Yeah."
They're in a second hallway now, leading to the elevator, down to the cafeteria. "I'll tell you this," says Maoro, "she's not the best at keeping friends. She's kind, but she's... I can't really say, either. Distant. Unattached."
That's exactly the impression Ray was playing with in his head; Maoro confirming it made him a bit more uneasy.
"Unattached… like a sociopath?"
"If you're trying to get me to say that I think she killed someone, you're wasting time, Ray." Maoro doesn't like to take offense or get personal, but there's an icy edge to his voice now that he can't dull down. "I don't believe Maxine's killed anyone. And that's the end of that."
"Just doing my job, Vic."
They're by the elevator now, and Maoro stabs the button with a little too much force. There's a woman waiting with them; a portly lady with a bejeweled handbag, a powder-blue sweater that seemed to let off its own light, and a pair of large, butterfly-esque sunglasses with purple rims. She's looking at them, unabashedly blatant. Maoro thinks she's a bit doddery. Ray silently agrees, and they both decide to look at each other instead.
"I know you are… I just don't like this whole thing. And this is the last thing she needs right now. Doesn't help that it's the weekend. My sister's coming into town from Nevada tonight. Don't think I'll make dinner."
Ray sends him a sideways squint. "You have a sister in Nevada?"
"She had to move there for work." More bewilderment from Ray; Maoro has to clear it up. "She has a… different kind of job."
"Okay."
They're both standing before an elevator whose doors seem sealed. The old woman hasn't faltered her stare on them. Ray keeps glancing at her too, and eventually sends a quaky "How you doin', ma'am". She doesn't even so much as grunt, and they both resume their stances.
"Goes without saying," says Maoro, "but don't talk to anyone about my sister."
"Um… sure."
"No, seriously, I'm not allowed to discuss-"
"I get it. Zipped lip. Relax."
"Sorry. How's your dad doing?"
"Good."
"Good."
How an elevator could take this long and still redeem the title of a functional machine is anyone's guess. And maybe it doesn't help that the woman beside them has taken to picking her nose while she stares, as though the observation assists the act. A symbiotic relationship between Maoro, Ray, her finger and her nose; unbreakable. Potent. A bond that cycles between them infinitely, growing stronger with every excruciating minute. Maoro assumes she's just utterly senile and lets it pass, but Ray has trouble keeping his eyes off the spectacle.
"What's her problem?"
"Dunno. Don't think about it."
"Fucking Christ - should we take the stairs?"
"I think we should."
Another hallway to the left. A turn into a tiny cove in the wall; an exit door. The stairwell is dim and cold. Appropriate; neither of them expected anything else. Two floors down and into the lobby of the hospital. It's livelier here; the glass dome near the entrance allows a generous wave of warm light. Cafeteria's in sight.
"You planning on staying?" Ray asks, as they make their way.
"Of course."
"We don't know when she'll wake up. Aaklya's already pushing for waking her up now."
"Tell your superior," Maoro hisses, "that a patient will not be harassed while she recovers. That kind of mistreatment is punishable by law."
The cafeteria is busy. Bright, a little dusty, and a mangled smell of grease and fruit. There are people here; miserable, fat consumers, anxious, bone-thin tea drinkers, stragglers with nowhere else to be, and a few who looked genuinely hungry. The two men order their coffees from the McDonald's to the left. Ray is about to pay, but Maoro doesn't let him.
"You got the last round."
But Ray isn't listening. "Shit - where's my - got it -"
His phone; he pulls it out of his back pocket, and it's vibrating."Hello?"
Maoro waits, watching Ray's face closely. The cashier is counting his change for him. Ray looks up and holds the phone away from his face, by an inch.
"Caulfield. She's awake."
The coffees are left on the counter, and the cashier is yelling at them both, but they're gone; like wisps of dust in the dense sunlight.
*
"There you go darlin'... you had a nasty fall last night."
Maxine doesn't stop until the glass is empty, and it's not enough. Water, sweet, delicious, life-giving water. She can feel her own body waking up from the first gulp she took. There's a woman standing next to her, in a pale blue uniform. At the foot of her bed is another woman; this one's wearing a white coat. She smiles at Maxine, and it looks so obviously strained that she wonders why the doctor would even bother attempting it; it's part of her job, she supposes.
Only after handing the glass to the nurse does she notice the cast on her left arm. Feels the weight of the wrapping around her skull. It hurts to move her head; she isn't remotely curious how bad her arm might be. That one's staying as still as possible. The doctor's holding a clipboard, and she opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off swiftly by the nurse.
"I was tellin' ol' doctor Lissy here tha-ch'yoo a strong li'l ladeh! Hehe - Lissy - her name's Alyssa, but I been here fifteen years, I see her walkin' in bout six years 'go, sweet li'l girl fresh outta college, lookin' all terrified as shet! Hahaha-"
Maxine would like another glass of water, but she's not sure if it's polite to interrupt. That, and she's a bit entranced by the story.
"-so I'm sayin 'er, I says, 'you look like you don' wanna be here', and she gettin' all angry at me, goin' 'you don' know me ladeh! I'm the toppa my class, imma own this hospital one day!' Inn' that right, Lissy!"
Maxine carefully turns her face to look at the doctor, who's a bit flustered, and muttering "never said that" while she checks something off her clipboard, which of course sends the nurse into another laughing fit. She finishes her list, looks up at Maxine; there's that forced smile again.
"Good morning, Max - can I call you Max?"
"M… Maxine…" is all she can muster. But her strength's coming back, and she knows she can talk more now. She clears her throat. "Just Maxine is fine… if that's okay."
"Oh - sure! Maxine." The woman is at her side now, checking her eyelids, her tongue, her pulse. "How… are… you… feeling, Maxine?"
"Little light-headed."
"That's normal. You must be hungry. When did you last eat?"
Come to think of it, she doesn't remember the last time she ate. When was it? She didn't eat anything when she came home last night - she didn't have any dinner on her way back from the office. She didn't eat anything while she stayed at the office doing some paperwork, many hours past closing… there was a cup of coffee involved at some point. No, her last meal was yesterday afternoon, around 4 PM; she'd had a late lunch. What was it? Turkey sandwich. No, two. Two sandwiches. It had been seventeen hours since she'd eaten.
"Yesterday… afternoon. What time is it, doctor?"
"It is... just past 9 AM." She glances at the nurse on the other side of the bed, who nods quickly and walks away. Now, she's checking Maxine's IV bag. "Do you know what today's date is, Maxine?"
She'd forced herself to go into work yesterday, because it was the weekend; although, she does remember not minding it too much. She didn't have much to do at home anyway. So, the weekend… and before she left, the Thunderbirds were playing live on TV somewhere - she only knew because she's been scrolling Facebook for hours… it was a Saturday when she'd left for work.
"I left home on Saturday… it was Sunday when I got back. Did I sleep through into Monday?"
"Nope, you're still in Sunday. You didn't sleep long. The, uh - the policemen - I think, your colleagues? They brought you here a few hours ago…"
She looks questioningly across the room, and Maxine follows her gaze to find a stranger sitting there. He's in police uniform. He seems oddly familiar… where had she seen him before? Some time very recently…
"Uh, no ma'am," he pipes up, "we're, uh - miss Caulfield is - we're not colleagues."
"Oh." The doctor doesn't seem satisfied with the answer, but she makes nothing of it. "Now, you, miss Caulfield… have not been taking care of yourself."
"I just work a lot," says Maxine, knowing full well what the doctor's talking about.
"You were dehydrated when they brought you in here. You should be kinder to your body, Maxine, you only get one…"
And with that, memories of last night come crashing in, as though some makeshift barrier splitting at the seams had finally shattered. The tripping, her elbow, the human corpse in her apartment, the policemen, the ice bag, the man who brought it-
"Remy!" she exclaims, looking over at the man sitting with them. Both he and the doctor are quite taken aback.
"Yes," says he.
"Your name's Remy, right?"
"Ye - yes, ma'am."
"I remember…" and her memories of fear, the terror she felt, leak in as well. "Oh, god… where - which hospital is this? I need to see Maoro - I need to call - am I a suspect? I have to testify -"
"Max-Maxine!" the doctor places a firm hand on her shoulder. "You're staying right where you are, d'you understand? You have a concussion, you need food and monitoring. Not to mention the broken arm?"
"I feel fine, please, you don't understand -"
"Uh," Remy chimes in, "Your boss… Vincent Maoro? He's here. I called him. Well - I called the Lieutenant. They're together. They should be here real soon."
Maxine blinks, and leans back on her bed. "Lieutenant?"
"Lieutenant Voyeres, he's the, uh... acting supervisor for this case. For now."
Maxine's about to ask for more details, but she realizes she can't discuss this in front of the doctor; moreover, Remy's presence in the room is telling. She's definitely a suspect. The thought doesn't surprise her, but the prospect of defending herself is not something she'll enjoy.
But - beyond that… what? Who? Why? Was anyone working on answering these questions, while she was asleep?
The door to her room opens, and the nurse is back, this time with a tray. The simple concept of food burns away any inkling of rational thought, for she realizes just how ridiculously hungry she is. The case could wait. Everything could wait.
"Here ya go, darlin'... eat up now. You need it."
The lid is lifted. There's grilled chicken, quinoa, artichokes, potatoes, a bowl of soup and some bread. Maxine loses track of time for a few minutes.
"You're looking well."
Mouth full of food, fork wielded, she looks up to see Maoro standing at the doorway, with the same policeman she'd been speaking to the night before.
"Oh-hi Waoro," she manages. Struggling to gulp it down, so she can speak. Maoro chuckles and waves it off.
"No, relax. Eat. I would've been here sooner, but the goddamn elevators here... oh, I suppose I should introduce you…"
"We've met," the policeman says curtly. "Although, not formally I guess."
"This is Raymond Voyeres, he's too important to introduce himself."
"Thank you Vic… Remy, did you call Aaklya?"
"Deputy's on her way, boss."
"Good…" Ray doesn't quite know how to approach Maxine. He's considering letting his supervisor do it in his stead, but that's retreating from duty, for reasons he can't define, and could he really allow that?
Rhetorical. He won't. She's sitting on her bed, eating, occasionally glancing at him and everyone else in the room. The doctor doesn't quite know what to do, she's fidgeting and really doesn't look like she belongs here at all.
"You… had a pretty bad fall last night. How are you feeling?" Ray is testing the waters. What a stupid question, he thinks. She's in a hospital. How the fuck do you think she feels?
"I'm fine," says Maxine coolly. "Thank you-" she sends a glance at Remy, "-for the ice pack. It really helped."
Vic spies a quick look at Maxine's cast. He feels a light twinge in his own elbow, a pinprick, and flexes to get it out.
"So - um - yes, the - the incident…" Vic clasps his hands together because he's not sure where to put them. "Coroner's still quiet, but I'd get an attorney if I were you."
Maxine figured as much. "I didn't do anything," she says bluntly, and takes another bite.
Vic wanted to reply with "That's what they all say," but he could feel Maoro's eyes digging into the back of his skull.
Without looking at Remy or Maoro, he leaves the room. The door is left open and faint stirrings of activity outside waft in. Remy gets up to follow him, but thinks better of it; he takes to leaning on the wall, putting his chair between himself and Maoro, who's burning holes into the floor with a pained stare. The nurse pokes her head through the door. She looks pissed.
"This mean we can come back in now? Get back to my job, if y'all find that appeasable!?"
She struts in and cleans up Maxine's tray, checking the paraphernalia next to her bed.
"Lissy got paged," she says to Maxine, with a level of vocal emphasis one might expect in the delivery of a campaign slogan. "I'll leddah know, detective hardass cleared out. She gon' come see you real soon, Maximoo."
Maxine lets out a giggle. "Thanks - I'm sorry, I never asked your name."
"You call me Lydia. Not you two though -" she turns to point at Remy and Maoro, looking at them over the top of her glasses - "you boys gon' call me Nurse. Never liked cops, bunch o' arrogant - good thing you don't hang with that sorta crowd Maxy."
Maoro's look of dense indifference falls to that of mild amusement; she did in fact, hang with that sorta crowd.
No sooner than a few seconds after Lydia exited her room, a woman in uniform walks in with wide strides, checking the number plate outside to make sure it was the right place. Remy stumbles into a bit of a half-salute, and Maoro stops leaning on the wall. Maxine, who was about to lie back on her pillow, strains herself to sit up longer; her head is hurting. Concussion.
The woman doesn't address anyone, and looks around vigorously, scanning the room and peeking into the hallway. Her movements and general conduct are energetic and strapping; she doesn't seem to ever truly stop moving.
"Where's Ray?" she asks Remy. A curt, well-aged voice, thick and loud.
"He, uh -" Remy clearly doesn't have an answer, but he doesn't need one. He receives a call from Ray.
"Oh - that's him, ma'am." Takes the call. Ray's voice, quick and heightened over the sounds of traffic and rain. "Remy! Tell Aaklya that I'm sick! Had to go home-"
Remy doesn't hear the rest of it; the phone's in Aaklya's hand now. Swift and precise in her movement, she's now barking into the receiver at an unsuspecting Ray.
"Voyeres, where the hell are you? What? You're sick? Then take a Tylenol and get your ass- what? Are you fucking kidding me, Lieutenant? Hello? Hell- son of a bitch."
Remy gets his phone back, and Maxine really needs to use the washroom.
"I'm the Deputy. Aaklya Carne." She gives Maxine a curt nod, hands on hips, all flustered. "Maoro -" she whips around at him, who stares back somewhat impassively, arms still crossed, "- can you come down to the office today at noon? We need to go over the Meyershide report and the judge gave us till Thursday."
Maoro gives a brisk nod.
"Now - you, Caulfield," she turns again, and Maxine's a bit affronted by how much bolstered energy this woman seems to projectile-vomit at whoever happens to be in her line of sight; Maoro's unaffected, but both Remy and Maxine can't quite handle it.
"You'll have to stay in the city, until further notice… you can't go back to your apartment for now, so find somewhere else to stay - and you'll need to come down to the station whenever we need you. Got it?"
Maxine nods. "Yeah. Can I work?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," Maoro cuts in. "You can come back when you come back. Take a break for now."
He meant for it to be consoling, but the idea of taking a break seems to fall on Maxine like a bucket of cold water. She says nothing, regardless.
Aaklya carries on. "Anyway, you should take it easy for now, I heard you like to ram through things but maybe that's not a good idea." And she taps herself on the head, like she's indicating the bandages on Maxine's skull, and she puts up an odd grin; oh lord, was that a joke? She tried to make a joke. I should smile, Max thinks. And so she does.
"I'll… be fine," says Maxine, putting some pressure on her head to test the waters. "Just let me know if you need anything - and if you find out who it was or-"
"We'll be in touch," Aaklya cuts her off. "As it turns out, I have to meet someone else in this hospital too… so I'll be going. Maoro, a word outside."
Maoro gives Maxine a tiny nod and follows the Deputy, arms still crossed. Maxine can see them across the hall; he's got both arms crossed, and she's talking with one arm behind her back, the other in her pocket. It's an odd stance, she's never seen anyone stand like that before. Aaklya glances in Maxine's direction a couple of times while they talk, but Maxine can't hear a word they're saying. Is it about her? Are they talking about how suspicious she looks in all this?
"Stop being paranoid," she mutters to herself, and leans back on her bed. Her phone is on her bedside table; someone even took the trouble of hooking up the charger. Who would do that? They would've had to find the charger in her house, and the phone in her jeans. Someone took the trouble. Couldn't have been Maoro, could it?
She decides to check her phone to take her mind off things. Six missed calls and two texts, all from the same contact. A number she knows well, a number not saved on her phone under any name. Why now? Did he find out about her accident? Did Maoro tell anyone? There would've been no time… And Maoro doesn't know him at all. How did he know?
Maxine decides to fall asleep. Yes, sleep sounds incredible. The more, the better. This nightmare would end when she woke up. It would end.
*
Verdict of the Weary
The sun condemns all the weary;
The worth of a tree is its – shadow!
"Prescott!" Two sharp clangs on the open metal door pulls Nathan Prescott out of his pages. The tattered book in his hands is slammed shut on instinct. He springs to his feet.
"Visitor," says the prison guard, leaning on the door frame. "Let's go."
Nathan doesn't understand. He blinks, trying to process the word.
His cellmate snorts from the bunk above him. "Hah! A visitor for you? That's fuckin' rich. What'd ye do, Nops?" The man leans over the edge of his bed to look down at Nathan. "Yeh been here over ten years, no visitor. Whoever it is, give 'em a kiss from ol' Hick. Muah. Eh? Hahaha!"
Nathan looks back at the guard. He just points at himself, eyebrows high, flabbergasted.
The guard nods, apparently sympathetic to his confusion. "Visitor. Never thought I'd see the day. Let's go, come on."
He leaves the book on his pillow and follows the guard through the polished railings and grilled stairwells of what has been his home for over a decade. Eyes to the floor, counting his steps. Twenty three… twenty seven… thirty one…
"Took you thirteen years to get someone to give a shit, eh, Nate?" the guard jeers from beside him. He says nothing. "Goddamn, I don't ever remember you having a visitor… because I'm sure you'd tell me if I missed that, right, Nate?"
He nods quickly.
The visitors' meeting place. It's one hundred and eighty-seven steps from his cell. Good to know, Nathan thinks, and puts that information away, next to all the other useless calculations he'd amassed since his exile. They're in a small room with chairs, phones and glass walls. He's never been here. It's not very well-lit, unlike the rest of the prison.
The guard motions to the empty chair at the far end of the room. The privacy walls make it so that Nathan can't see who's sitting on the other side of the wall. There are two other inmates here, talking to their visitors. Who's here to see Nathan? Unfathomable. He considers for a moment, as he approaches his chair, that he may be dreaming. It does add up, after all – why would Nietzsche write a poem of only two lines, and why would it have so inconclusive a message? The worth of a tree is its shadow? Perhaps, yes – but what of it? The poem has to be longer… he'd find out when he woke up, Nathan reassures himself. Still, this was quite strange for a dream.
The figure seated across from him is unfamiliar, but wholly recognizable. Short, mousy, shoulder-length brown hair. Nathan's head is spinning. Amassing any reassurance he's held that he is not lucid, all of which he knows to be false, Nathan grabs the chair with a shaking hand and sits down, his eyes locked to the table, his mouth dry and forehead wet. With brisk glances, he chances a look at her again. Just to confirm his delusion. To validate that the person sitting here truly is who she looks like. He's overwhelmed with a feeling of unfathomable horror and has the sudden urge to kick off his seat and run, run to his cell and lock the door and never come back out. He's staring into the face of the world that rejected him, threw him where he belongs. What business did it have now, coming here to gaze upon his rotting soul? Why did it come here? And with that, came fury. Why is she here? She has no right to look at him and burn him with his own reflection in her eyes; his damnation is private, who the fuck does she think she is? Well, says a surely voice in his head, she's the only person who knew, in those tumultuous final days, the sheer extent of the chaos that had surrounded Blackwell. Like a force of nature she allowed the inferno to blaze around her, seemingly aware of every tremor of existence, as she spoke to him before his trial, before his incarceration. She'd said things that he didn't remember now, but that had made him feel as though she weren't real; weren't human. Something more. Something he could only ever dream of becoming. That manifestation of immeasurable omniscience, which had allured and terrified him then, sat across from him today, looking astronomically normal. As though this were just another visit of theirs.
She picks up her phone, and waits for him to do the same. Reluctantly, he does. His terror is only matched by his curiosity. He puts it to his ear and hears a voice he'd never dreamed of hearing again.
"Hello, Nathan," says Maxine Caulfield, her free hand resting on the table, a light blue turtleneck sweater pulled up to her wrists. He can't speak. He doesn't dare try. He's afraid his voice might crack at the first attempt to vocalize any thought, that he might break down crying and never stop. Her voice sounds only slightly different than he remembers, in flashes. She looks older, but not by much. An impressive feat given their history. He sees her wearing glasses now. She didn't before. Did she? She might have… he can't confirm it. Why the fuck are you here? He implores her, in silence. Why have you come to see me in this state? She doesn't belong here. Her very presence in this place makes his skin crawl.
"How are you?" she asks. No response. Nathan pushing his thumb in between his fingers, looking down at them. He tries to form an answer but all he can manage is to shake his head.
"You don't look good," says Maxine. Nathan's jaw tightens. A part of him thinks, you stupid bitch, I'm in fucking jail! Why would I look good? Another part of him wants to hug her and leave this place with her, somewhere they can talk like human beings. A luxury he'd never extended to her back then.
"I know this is… weird," Maxine continues. Her eyes stay focused on Nathan while his dart around his immediate environment. "I know we've never… but I wanted to see you."
Why? Nathan begs her to answer that without him asking.
"There's a lot going on… I don't really know how to – I can't even talk about it here. I guess I just…"
She trails off, and Nathan musters the courage to glance at her. She's looking away now, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. The longer she looks away, the easier it becomes for him to look at her. So long as her eyes don't meet his. He notices even more little things, like how her hair has highlights that have faded with time, how she wears a vintage leather-strap watch that doesn't have the time right. He wonders if she still likes photography. He wonders if he still does.
"Do–" his voice is unbearably dry. He clears his throat and looks away to avoid her swift gaze. "Yeah?" she asks, hopeful for a conversation. "Didn't catch that. Do… what?"
"Do you… um…" he grips the phone, tight, praying for strength. He looks her in the eyes now. "Do you still… are you into – photography, still? At all?"
Maxine stares for a moment, and breathes a small laugh. "That's… no, not really."
"Wh-why… why aren't – why aren't you, like – you know, just wondering – you were good." He blurts out this mess of a statement. She shakes her head. "No, I was trash. Polaroids… what a waste of time."
Nathan wants to disagree, but decides against it. He can still smell the corruption of his own passion, wafting up from the grave he'd dug for his soul all those years ago. Too much of this talk and he might vomit.
"Well, actually…" Maxine breaks the silence. "That's not totally true. I do still like it. I use my phone to take pictures. It's just not like, some official thing. Just for me. You know?"
He does know. He doesn't nod.
"Why do you ask?" she says.
"Um… just… making conversation?" he glares at the ceiling. "Because… you won't say why… why you're here."
He's hoping his tone isn't cruel, but he doesn't mind too much if it is. She shows up, and then gives no explanation? What is with that shit?
"Why I'm here," she repeats, looking at something over Nathan's shoulder. "I guess I just wanted to see how you were. If you were okay."
Nathan wants to lunge at her and choke her to death. Why on earth would she care if he's okay? After everything he'd done? Why is she treating him like anything other than the monster he knows he is? What kind of anomalous monster was she?
"I'm fine," he manages through clenched teeth.
"How long until your sentence is up?" she asks, uncharacteristically forward. She looks like the question just dawned on her now, but he has the feeling this is the real reason why she came.
"Why?"
"Just – please, just tell me."
"Fucking why, Max?" he growls. Leans forward, one hand balled up in an angry fist, a finger jabbing the table as he speaks. "What the fuck are you even doing here? It's been thirteen years. I don't know you. I don't know you people. This is where I am, that's where you are. It's over. So just fuck off!"
His raising voice attracts the attention of a guard. "HEY! Watch your mouth, Prescott," the guard spits. "Keep it down."
"Sorry. Sorry." Nathan curls back into his hunched self. His momentary flair vanished as quickly as it had come. He's looking at the floor again. "Sorry…" he keeps whispering, shaking his head. "Sorry…"
Maxine looks on the verge of tears. "Nathan. Please. Just tell me–"
"Twenty-five years," he states, looking up with dead eyes. "I got twenty-five, it's been thirteen, do the math."
He's trying to read her face, but can't tell if that number is more or less than what she'd expected. She bites her lip and nods, more to herself than him. "Twelve years… twenty-thirty eight… Thank you, Nathan."
And she gets up to leave. He's astounded. She can't just leave like that. What the fuck is she doing? What kind of sick game is this? He's about to yell at her to stay, but she stops and sits down immediately. The phone is still in her hand.
"Look…" she begins. "There's going to be some – something strange is happening, I can't prepare you for it but you'll know when you see it. Just… stick around. Okay? Be safe."
And she gets up again. "Wait!" Nathan calls, gripping the edge of the desk. "What's going on, Max?"
She stands there, facing away, for what feels like a long time. One hand on her chair, the other holding the corded phone. She decides to look back at him, and slowly brings it to her ear. "I'm trying to fix this. I'm trying to fix it."
"Fix what?" Nathan asks, horribly confused.
"Everything."
And she yanks her hand off the chair, slams the phone back on its receiver and struts out before he can say any more. Gingerly, he puts it down as well.
"Up," says the guard. "Let's go."
Nathan makes his way back to his cell in a daze. The daily count would be taking place soon, which means Hick would have to shut up for at least a few minutes. He greatly appreciates that. He needs some silence. He needs to be alone. What would he have to do to be alone? He needs to think. What on earth could she have meant?
He would be perfectly alone in solitary, he thinks. What if he gets into a brawl with the guard standing behind him? That's enough to get him in the hole.
Don't be fucking stupid.
He enters his cell to see Hick just as he'd left him. Sits down on the bed while the guard shuts the door. "Hick. Get your ass on the chair for count."
And with the slam comes silence. Hick bounces onto the floor and straddles the chair across from Nathan.
"Soooo?" he rasps. "Who was it? I'm fuckin' dyin' ta know, Nops! Talk to your old man! Was it yer folks?"
Nathan can't hear him. He's looking for the book he'd left on the pillow. It's gone.
"Huh? Was it mom and dad?" Hick spreads a filthy grin. "Here ta see their li'l boy? No?"
Nathan lifts up the pillow. The covers. Checks under the bed.
"Was it a bitch? Huh? You got a bitch on the outside you never tell me 'bout? She hot?"
Nathan jumps up to look at Hick's bed. Not there either.
"Hey!" Hick exclaims, finally taking notice. "The fuck you touchin' my bed for?"
"Where's my book?" Nathan asks quietly, infuriated.
"What book? I dunno no book–"
Three loud bangs on the door. They look up to see an officer glaring at them through the window. "No talking during count!" she bellows. "Sit the fuck down, Prescott!"
And he does, swiftly. They wait in stifled silence for a good five minutes before they assume the officers have cleared the floor. Nathan lowers his voice to a whisper.
"My book, the little blue one, where is it, Hick?" he asks, his voice quivering.
Hick lets out a raspy chuckle. "I don't fuckin' read, Nops. I don't know 'bout yer book. Oh!"
He points a finger at the wall behind him. "I saw Red Larry come in 'ere and takin' somethin' from yer bed. He took ya book. He took it."
"Larry?" Nathan can't make head or tail of it. "Larry? Why would Larry take my book? Why's he even in my cell? You didn't say nothing?"
"I don' fuck with Larry," says Hick, shaking his head. "Not after what happen' ta Nelson. You best not forget neitha, Nops, ye know what's good for ya. Forget the book."
But Nathan knows that's impossible. He's getting his book back. He needs to read that poem again. It made him feel confused, and he's still confused. Even more so than when he'd read it. He needs answers.
*
The administrative assistant is typing away at high speeds, inputting names on a spreadsheet, when she hears the telltale squeaks of frantic feet on those freshly-mopped linoleum floors of the hospital. A burly man, unkempt beard and glasses askew, looking as if he hadn't showered for days, comes up to her. She maintains composure and awaits the verbal assault.
"Hi, I'm here for a Max Caulfield – Maxine, Maxine Caulfield?"
"And may I know who you are, sir?"
"I'm her - brother," he says, his eyes wide with impatience. "She was in some kind of accident? I'd like to see her, please."
"Your name?"
*
"How's Jun doing? … Yeah? Good. Look, the McGrier files are on my desk – yeah, but we'll have to re-do those labs, the constable said something about inadmissible – oh, they told you too? Okay, we're good, then… ugh, this is such a pain. I'll be there soon. Tell Maoro I said hi. Thanks."
Maxine puts down her phone and looks out the window. It's a much nicer day today than it's been this last week. Finally, no rain. And she's stuck here in this room until the doctor says otherwise. It's just a concussion. Why won't they just let her go? Nothing some painkillers won't fix. She needs to get back to work. She needs to clear up this bizarre thing.
Maoro's been increasingly distant lately. She doesn't like it. They won't talk to her about the case. They won't share any developments. She's afraid they're waiting for her to be discharged so she can be briefed. Arrested… for something she didn't do. She sees no way out of this. The silence is deafening.
Her phone rings. She's quick to reach for it – it's Maoro. Relief. Maybe he would finally…
"Hi, Maoro! What's – yeah? Oh… okay. I – no, I – yeah. Yes. Sure. Listen, are you, um – are you sure… I understand. I get it. No, it's okay. Thanks. Bye."
Leave of absence? Doesn't sound unnatural in a case like this. She hangs up the phone and feels like chucking it across the room. Of course, she doesn't. But what other venue of catharsis was there? Maybe a walk would help. She'd been in this bed all night. A morning walk would take her mind off things.
Maxine swings her legs off the bed and tests out her balance. It's weak. Her head is heavy, and it hurts to turn her head. Slow. Steady. Turn yourself toward the door. It's not even open – figures. She walks around the room for a bit to steady herself. It doesn't help much, but she's got the swing of how much movement is feasible now. There's a mild feeling of nausea that she ignores. She knows it's normal for a concussion, but it would mean she'd have to stay and "rest" even more, and the idea might bore her to death. To the door, then.
The door cracks open. Maxine stops. A nurse pokes her head inside and looks visibly frightened to see an empty bed, only to see Maxine standing next to it, her arms slightly raised for balance. The nurse swings the door open and walks in.
"You're supposed to be resting, dear," she says, guiding Maxine to the bed.
"No – I need a walk. I'm tired of resting. Can we please go for a walk?"
"In a bit. You have a visitor."
"Visitor?"
"Your brother's here to see you!"
"My-?" And Maxine looks over at the door, perplexed, to see a tall, drooping figure she hadn't noticed. Seeing him causes her to sit down.
"I'll get out of the way – use your buzzer if you feel any discomfort, or if you need to vomit, here's the tray – let me know, okay?"
Maxine tries to nod, but can't; she gives a faint "hmm" instead. The nurse steps out and leaves the door open.
"Hi," says the man, stepping inside. Curly hair, a furious stubble, thick-rimmed glasses and a baggy overcoat over a shirt and jeans. He is as he'd always been.
"Hi, Warren."
"You look… good," says Warren, hesitant.
"I look terrible," Maxine corrects. "And so do you. Have you showered?"
"No?" Warren doesn't take kindly to her mothering. It's been a while since she'd done that.
"You look it," says Maxine, but her tone has no malice. "How'd you know I was here?"
"Well, after all the calls and texts you didn't answer, I called your work. Found out. I was here yesterday too, but visiting hours were done, so…"
"Oh… I see."
He gives her a pained expression. "What happened?"
"I, uh – I fell. Tripped."
She looks away. Warren's gaze is burning into her bruised skull. She wishes he'd stop that.
"Something you're not telling me?" he asks.
"I'm not lying – I did fall over, you know."
He moves closer to the bed, very slowly, afraid she might not like the proximity. She doesn't mind at all. "You told them you're my brother?"
"I had to," he explains. "I know I look like shit. And if I said 'ex-husband' they might've not let me see you. And they have that 'family only' rule sometimes, I wasn't sure if… this… was the time. So. Yeah…"
She looks away again, grinning. "We look nothing alike."
"Well, I take after dad, you take after mom," he says, smiling back. "Or maybe the other way around."
And she laughs. It's been a while since she'd laughed. She can't remember when.
"Warren…"
"What won't you tell me?" he says, walking over to her side of the bed. "What happened? You didn't just fall."
Maxine puts her arms around herself, head bowed. "There was a… a man… a dead man… in my apartment… I don't know – I don't know who it was… how he got there, I got home late and I didn't see him in the dark and I tripped and they think I killed him–"
"Okay – okay, just breathe, okay?" Warren sits next to her and puts an arm around her. "It's okay. You're not going to jail because you didn't kill anyone. Got it?"
"But what doesn't – explain anything!" she gasps. Her eyes begin to sting. There's a lump in her throat. "How did he – who would –?"
"It's not… the only weird thing that happened recently," says Warren quietly. "And I'm thinking it might be connected."
"Connected to what?"
He takes a long, deep breath. This conversation isn't going to be easy.
"Never mind. We'll talk about it later. Are you – does it hurt? Concussion, looks like – do you need anything?"
"I have a nurse, Warren," she forces a smile. "But thanks. I'm good."
"You're not. What, some guy is dead in your apartment? Where? Who was he?"
"He was in my kitchen. Naked. I don't know who, never seen him."
"He was naked?"
"Yeah! I don't get it, and nobody's talking to me, and it's like they don't trust me, and the police were here and they didn't let Maoro talk to me, and I don't know – I just… I feel weird."
"Weird?" Warren hooks onto the word. He's testing the waters, because what he has to say might change everything, but he knows it's a conversation she isn't ready for.
"Yeah. I don't know. Something's wrong. It's like…"
She screws up her face and takes several deep breaths. Warren is afraid. She might pass out or something. He just sits with her, arms around her, and lets her collect herself. He doesn't know what else to do. He wishes he did.
"It's – like…" every word out of her mouth is forced. "Like… it reminds me… I don't know."
Warren's heart sinks. It looked like she was making some progress. He might've even been able to talk to her about what he'd found. But he can't. Not yet.
"Do you feel like the way you did… in Arcadia Bay, maybe?"
She blinks. Her eyebrows crossed. Blinks again. Looks at him, perplexed. "Arcadia Bay?"
"Nothing."
"What's Arcadia Bay?"
"Forget it – I got something mixed up. Don't stress about it. You need rest."
"I don't need rest!" she says, adamant. And tries to stand up again. Warren helps her up. "I need to get out of here. I need to go home. Figure out why I'm feeling so – so fucking – I don't even know what to call it…"
And her face suddenly droops, like something's dawned on her.
"What if I did do it?"
"Huh?" Warren, holding her arm to support her, can't believe she's saying this.
"What if I actually killed someone and this concussion made me forget? And this feeling is… I don't know, guilt?"
"Max. Listen to yourself. Why would you kill someone?"
She says nothing. He gently turns her face toward him. "You didn't do anything. You have nothing to worry about. Whatever this is, you're gonna be fine, because you're innocent, and you're not alone, got it? You're not alone. You have friends. You have me. We care about you."
She smiles her stiff smile like she'd been doing, but she can't keep it up. Seeing him here, after so long, she can't keep up her smile. She's not alone. You're not alone, she tells herself. This will end. He's here, he's here in the flesh, and he's holding you up, he's real. You're not alone. With every passing second, she lets her eyes water again, and finally, after an eternity of accepting what she expected herself to be able to handle, Max finally cries. Leans into Warren's chest, resting on him, and he hugs her and kisses her head, terrified to see her like this. Quiet sobs turn to audible heaves. His shirt is wet and his face is too. He's missed her too much.
"It's okay. I'm here."