Terry awoke, groggy, sore and very, very weary, to the sight of yellow-brown waxed wood beams.
A face filled his vision. He couldn’t tell what kind of face, but he knew it was one, because it had a mouth that was moving. There were sounds coming out too, but they jangled like church chimes rung not quite in sync, and he couldn’t read anything of it. That was all right; the light was getting hazy and bright, and a few moments later he fell back asleep.
The second time he awoke he was significantly more aware. He was still groggy and sore, but not so weary anymore, and able to figure out by the pattern of the wood beams that he was staring at a ceiling. A few more fumbled deductions later and he realized that he must be in a room, probably in a house. He got as far as realizing that he was lying on a bed before another face blocked his vision. This time he recognized it – it was Rachel’s.
“Terry, you’re awake.” She said gladly.
“Yes,” he replied. It was about all he could manage, not having much strength and being as confused as he was.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Terry considered this for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I am. But I’m really tired.”
Rachel nodded as if she was expecting this. “That’s from all the energy you’re using up to heal your injuries. Don’t worry, they’re almost gone now, and you should but up and about soon.”
This was news to Terry. “Injuries?” he asked, then tried to sit up, but sat back down at the lines of fire that raced up his chest.
“Injuries.” Rachel repeated, making Terry comfortable as he lay back down. She paused, then: “Do you remember what happened at the bar last night?”
“The bar . . .” Terry murmured, then fell silent. He could remember a few things. “Your uncle owned it.” Then, as Rachel shook her head, he corrected himself. “No, your . . . your grandpa, he owned it. And I asked him about your trouble, and he told me to but out, but I didn’t want to. I don’t remember anything else.”
“What happened was this,” Rachel began. “After-“
Terry suddenly moved forward again, interrupting her before wincing and settling back. “More, I remember more.” He said. “There was . . . an eight ball? But I don’t remember what it was about. And also . . . green sheets?”
Rachel, who had nodded at the mention of the eight ball, stopped and frowned. “Well,” she continued after a while, “I’ve got to admit I don’t know where the green sheets came from, but the eight ball figures into it. See, what happened was this.”
Rachel recounted what had happened to Terry, as far as her own knowledge could take her. As she talked, the descriptions clicked into blank spaces in Terry’s mind, sometimes bringing extra images out of the fog with them. By the time she had finished, he remembered everything, and was laying back with a worried look on his face.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Terry,” Rachel said, “what was the problem you were asking my grandpa about?”
Terry started slightly. His eyes shifted for a few moments, but finally they settled on hers.
“I overheard that the FBI was after you and your parents through a faulty air-duct in the plane.” He said. “I also heard something crazy about werewolves. I wanted to help.”
“But Terry, we didn’t need help.”
Terry stared for a moment, then dropped his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, bitterly. “I guess not. But I butted in, and now you have to take care of me.”
“Oh, Terry, it’s not like that at all!” Rachel protested, giving him a horizontal hug. Inside her mind, however, a small voice whispered: Yes it is. It’s exactly like that.
“Yes it is. It’s exactly like that.” Terry replied.
Suddenly, Rachel’s face started to swim in front of Terry’s eyes. He tried to speak, but though his mouth opened and closed, no sound came out. In a few moments, he had passed out again.
~
Sighing, Rachel adjusted the pillow behind his head. She waited a few minutes, then, convinced that he was out for a few hours. As she was about to leave, however, she met her grandmother at the bedroom door, carrying an armful of colored bed-sheets. Mrs. O’Hara set down the sheets on an armchair and began to unfold a large, pastel green one as she spoke.
“Any activity?” she asked.
“Actually, yes.” Rachel replied.”He woke up for a while. He didn’t remember much of what had happened, so I filled him in on it. He seems pretty well right now.”
“Did he mention his right hand at all?” Mrs. O’Hara queried.
Rachel paused, then looked back at the boy on the cot. He left hand was folded on top of his chest, but his right stuck straight out from the bed, like a ghastly charred tree limb. “No,” she replied. “I don’t think he noticed it.”
“Well, that’s lucky.” The old lady sighed. “We’ll have to deal with that sometime, but at least for now he is doing nothing but recovering. Here, help me change the bedding.”