facial bandages like her own, and many of the others bore livid facial scars.
She found a small unoccupied sofa bathed in the morning sun, and eased herself onto it. Sitting felt strange after three days spent exclusively on her back. She closed her eyes and slumped, letting the sunlight warm her face through the bandages.
As she relaxed, the sounds of the lounge began to sort themselves out. Snatches of conversation, murmured prayers, the occasional groan or whimper. Now and then there was a creak from a wheelchair in transit, or the peculiar rhythm of crutches thudding across the linoleum. At irregular intervals, the public-address system would call the name of a doctor or nurse. Underneath it all was a low, whooshing rumble of air passing back and forth through the room, propelled by the hospital ventilating system.
After a while, she straightened and tried to pay attention to what was going on around her, if only for practice. The high percentage of the patients there who were facially disfigured, or who appeared to be headed that way, had not changed. There were no hospital personnel evident, nor did any appear during the subsequent hour. Movement around her was slow and labored. She remained the only occupant of the lounge who needed neither crutches nor wheelchair until just before noon.
She had sat alone for more than two hours when a new patient walked in normally, breaking her monopoly on ambulatory status. He was an ordinary-looking young man, perhaps a little shorter than she, with the dark eyes, thick dark hair, and pallid complexion of the long-time northern families. He was dressed in street clothes and bore no mark of calamity, save the tight discomfort evident in his face and the hunch of his shoulders.
He hesitated when he noticed her attention upon him, then headed toward her. "Is this seat taken?" His voice was soft and pleasant.
"No, help yourself." She watched him make himself comfortable.
"Thank you. It seems a pity to waste the sun...are you sure it's all right? You look very nervous."
"No, it's okay, I'm just new here."
He smiled, but he was at least as nervous as she, and couldn't hide it. "Most of us are. What happened to you?"
His directness was so disarming that she found herself answering before her inner censor could stop her. "Motorcycle accident."
He nodded.
"What about you?"
He shrugged. "They're following up on some tests." Something in his expression persuaded her not to press the matter. He turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and assumed a relaxed slump like her own. Several minutes passed in silence.
"What's your name?"
He opened his eyes and turned toward her, apparently surprised by the sally. "Louis. What's yours?"
"Christine. It's nice to meet you, Louis."
The sound of a crash came from the corridor beyond. Her heart leaped and her head whipped toward the door to scan for approaching danger.
No one entered the lounge. From the sounds of shuffling and metallic scraping outside, an orderly had probably dropped a pile of bedpans.
She turned back to Louis and found his eyes riveted to her. He was examining her with an intensity that made her anxiety strain against its bonds. What he was learning she could not guess. Yet his friendly expression had not changed.
Stay calm, Christine.
"Christine, are you all right?"
The weight of his gaze and the totality of his concentration upon her made his question more than rhetorical. He really wanted to know, perhaps in detail. The realization caused her fears to spike upwards. The Nag yammered in a distant corner of her skull, heard but unheeded.
"No...no."
"Are you afraid of something? Did someone do this to you?"
"No, I was in an accident."
"But you're afraid."
"Yes."
"But not because of your wounds." It was not a question.
"No."
"Can you tell me about it?"
Her fear had risen to a suffocating intensity. It took all her strength to draw a breath.
"I don't know, I'm sorry, it's not your problem, I shouldn't
She found a small unoccupied sofa bathed in the morning sun, and eased herself onto it. Sitting felt strange after three days spent exclusively on her back. She closed her eyes and slumped, letting the sunlight warm her face through the bandages.
As she relaxed, the sounds of the lounge began to sort themselves out. Snatches of conversation, murmured prayers, the occasional groan or whimper. Now and then there was a creak from a wheelchair in transit, or the peculiar rhythm of crutches thudding across the linoleum. At irregular intervals, the public-address system would call the name of a doctor or nurse. Underneath it all was a low, whooshing rumble of air passing back and forth through the room, propelled by the hospital ventilating system.
After a while, she straightened and tried to pay attention to what was going on around her, if only for practice. The high percentage of the patients there who were facially disfigured, or who appeared to be headed that way, had not changed. There were no hospital personnel evident, nor did any appear during the subsequent hour. Movement around her was slow and labored. She remained the only occupant of the lounge who needed neither crutches nor wheelchair until just before noon.
She had sat alone for more than two hours when a new patient walked in normally, breaking her monopoly on ambulatory status. He was an ordinary-looking young man, perhaps a little shorter than she, with the dark eyes, thick dark hair, and pallid complexion of the long-time northern families. He was dressed in street clothes and bore no mark of calamity, save the tight discomfort evident in his face and the hunch of his shoulders.
He hesitated when he noticed her attention upon him, then headed toward her. "Is this seat taken?" His voice was soft and pleasant.
"No, help yourself." She watched him make himself comfortable.
"Thank you. It seems a pity to waste the sun...are you sure it's all right? You look very nervous."
"No, it's okay, I'm just new here."
He smiled, but he was at least as nervous as she, and couldn't hide it. "Most of us are. What happened to you?"
His directness was so disarming that she found herself answering before her inner censor could stop her. "Motorcycle accident."
He nodded.
"What about you?"
He shrugged. "They're following up on some tests." Something in his expression persuaded her not to press the matter. He turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and assumed a relaxed slump like her own. Several minutes passed in silence.
"What's your name?"
He opened his eyes and turned toward her, apparently surprised by the sally. "Louis. What's yours?"
"Christine. It's nice to meet you, Louis."
The sound of a crash came from the corridor beyond. Her heart leaped and her head whipped toward the door to scan for approaching danger.
No one entered the lounge. From the sounds of shuffling and metallic scraping outside, an orderly had probably dropped a pile of bedpans.
She turned back to Louis and found his eyes riveted to her. He was examining her with an intensity that made her anxiety strain against its bonds. What he was learning she could not guess. Yet his friendly expression had not changed.
Stay calm, Christine.
"Christine, are you all right?"
The weight of his gaze and the totality of his concentration upon her made his question more than rhetorical. He really wanted to know, perhaps in detail. The realization caused her fears to spike upwards. The Nag yammered in a distant corner of her skull, heard but unheeded.
"No...no."
"Are you afraid of something? Did someone do this to you?"
"No, I was in an accident."
"But you're afraid."
"Yes."
"But not because of your wounds." It was not a question.
"No."
"Can you tell me about it?"
Her fear had risen to a suffocating intensity. It took all her strength to draw a breath.
"I don't know, I'm sorry, it's not your problem, I shouldn't
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