Instinct

7. Broken, Not Shattered

Perhaps it was naive of him to believe that somehow this skeleton of a girl would make a miraculous recovery in the motel room of a small town in rural Vermont, but nevertheless he'd expected something more than what really happened. Lydia never had understood where Brennan had gotten his optimism, considering his background, but she pitied him for it constantly, and warned him against its dangers.

So yeah, he was naive and wholly unready for a reality check.

Despite cranking the heater up on the dash of Rebecca's car, and finding his own cheeks flushed and warm, the grey-ish pallor to the girl's skin refused to brighten up. Her skin was cool, smooth, slack. He sat with her in the back, her head in his lap, her unwashed hair splayed out around her head, falling limply where it could. They had layered her in blankets too numerous to count, but Brennan wasn't sure it would be enough.

There was a strange rattle to her breathing, and if nothing else, Brennan knew to be wary of it. At least she was still breathing. Half an hour into the drive he realized that he hadn't removed his fingers from the pulse points in her wrist and her neck. He was reminded with a moment of shock how easily he had fallen into this routine, had immediately taken up the responsibility of caring for her.

Like everything else about this, whatever this was, it was endlessly strange. Surreal.

And the battle hadn't ended with bringing her core temperature up, enduring stifling heat and stuffy air in the car and the eventual motel room- the next problem was hydration. Luckily, Rebecca knew what she was doing, and had procured IV bags of saline and something else that she efficiently set up without a moment's hesitation.

Brennan had sat back, having finally let go of the young girl, and stared. He couldn't even begin to wrap his head around what he'd gotten himself into. When Rebecca stood back, and mirrored Brennan in his breathless stunned vigil, he blinked and spoke.

"I think," he said. "You owe me that explanation now."

At first, he wasn't sure that she had heard. After all, she showed no sign of recognizing his presence in the room. But eventually she took a seat on the edge of the wooden desk in the corner of the room and crossed her arms over her chest, her soft eyes still carefully placed on the girl tucked carefully into the double bed.

"It's a long story," she said.

"The way I see it," he replied. "We've got all the time in the world."

She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes, and sighed. "I guess we do."

Brennan waited patiently, studiously keeping his gaze on the doctor, and not the sickeningly weak girl in the room. His growing sense of helplessness wasn't going to make any of this any better.

"Humor me," he prompted.

"Her name," Rebecca said, lifting her eyes. "Her name is Stephanie Armstrong."

***

At first, it wasn't so bad. They didn't treat her any better than an animal used for testing, leaving her trapped, alone, unsure, but they didn't treat her any worse, either. All things considered, their measured wariness was the least of what Stephanie could have expected.

Quickly, a routine was established, and Stephanie clung onto it like a lifeline. It grounded her. When the lights turned on, it was morning, though Stephanie didn't know exactly what time that was. When they finally flicked off, the sun had set and the workers disappeared from her space, ceasing to exist within her walls of control.

There were no windows.

It was the one thing that Stephanie regretted. Funny, though, wasn't it? That in this world that Stephanie had stepped in to, she was grateful for the things she had, though she should have been free to have them anyway. All things considered, it was a small price to pay for what she had caused.