Chapter 7: Arithmetic

By the ninth day, Rory Keane could walk the length of his bedroom without touching the wall.

I made his tea every morning and every evening in the kitchen, plain black with a spoon of honey.

I poured Desmond's blend into the dead fern, and the fern got no deader.

The doctor came on the third night with his black bag.

I met him at the door and held out Rory's arm, where I had rubbed the skin red with a washcloth an hour before.

"He has a rash," I said. "Look at it. Is it the needle?"

The doctor looked at it for a long time.

Desmond stood behind him with his kind smile.

"Skip tonight," the doctor said finally. "Let it settle."

He had skipped every night since.

Now Rory sat on the edge of the bed in his shirtsleeves, with color in his face for the first time since I had met him.

"You're stronger," I said.

"I'm bored."

"You have to be weak in front of your uncle."

"I've been weak for two years." He rolled his shoulders. "Teach me how to do it better."

"Slump more," I said. "Let your mouth hang a little. And stop staring at him when he talks. You look ready to push him down the stairs."

"That's my natural face."

"Then breathe through your mouth."

He tried it.

It was terrible.

I laughed before I could stop myself, and he looked up at the sound.

It was the first time he had seen me laugh.

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