Chapter 58: Bad News
The feast after Garp's departure was loud, as always. The deck of the Oro Jackson was crowded with men drinking, singing, telling stories that grew taller with every round. Roger sat at the center of it, his bandaged arm resting on his knee, his laugh as bright as the firelight.
Kyle watched from the shadows. The wound was healing—Roger healed fast, he always had—but something about the way Roger moved tonight was different. A hesitation where there should have been none. A breath that came a fraction too hard.
It's nothing, Kyle told himself. He's been fighting Garp for years. A cut is a cut.
But the weight in his chest did not lift.
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The party was in full swing when Kyle stood. He walked to the fire, and the noise around him did not quiet until he spoke.
"I have a proposal."
The crew turned. Shanks and Buggy stopped chasing each other. Jabba lowered his cup. Even Roger looked up, curious.
"We need a ship's doctor."
Silence. Then Jabba snorted. "A doctor? What for? As long as your head's on your neck, you're fine."
Nozdon pounded his chest. "A little rum fixes everything!"
Laughter rippled through the crew. Kyle waited. When it faded, he spoke again, his voice calm, measured.
"Think about it. Every fight we hold back. We don't take risks we could take. We don't go for the killing blow when it might cost us an arm." He let the words settle. "With a doctor, that changes. Lose a limb? Pick it up. Stabbed through the chest? Someone's there to patch you. We could fight harder. Smarter. We could take on anyone."
The laughter faded. The crew exchanged glances. A doctor meant they could push further, risk more. For men who lived for battle, it was a compelling argument.
Kyle smiled. "And think about the mornings after."
Jabba raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"
"One dose of a proper hangover cure, and you're ready for another feast. No lost days. No wasted sunlight. A doctor could keep the party going."
The silence stretched. Then Roger's laugh broke it, bright and loud.
"Kuhahaha! Three feasts a day! Kyle, you're a genius!"
The crew caught fire. Jabba was shouting about hangover cures. Buggy was already calculating how much more treasure he could steal if he never had a headache. Shanks was laughing, caught up in the excitement.
Kyle let the noise wash over him. He had his answer.
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Later, when the feast had wound down and the crew had scattered to their bunks, Rayleigh found Kyle at the bow.
"You don't care about hangover cures," Rayleigh said. It was not a question.
Kyle did not answer. He watched the moon's reflection on the water.
"The wound," Rayleigh said. "It's not healing the way it should."
Kyle's jaw tightened. "He's Roger. He always heals."
"Does he?"
Kyle turned. Rayleigh's face was calm, but his eyes were sharp. He had seen the same things Kyle had seen—the breath, the hesitation, the bandage that should have come off by now.
"I don't know," Kyle admitted. "But I'm not going to wait to find out."
Rayleigh was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "A doctor. It's a good idea. For more reasons than one."
They stood together in the dark, watching the sea. Below, the ship creaked, the crew slept, and somewhere in his cabin, Roger breathed.
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End of Chapter 58