You Get Full Credit For Being Alive

Chapter Six

I'd never realized before just how many specialists there were in medicine. When I was sick as a child I was tended to by the local Catholic clinic's nurse practitioner; in the army there had been army doctors and field medics. After the army there had been back rooms and bloody instruments, and never any names exchanged. Then there had been Margot, and Margot had been good at everything Dom and I had ever needed. But our needs hadn't been rehabilitative, while Shawn's were nothing but.

He had different doctors for his pain management, for his brain function, for his mood, for his fuckin' kidneys, even. He had discrete therapists to help with swallowing, with speech, with reading comprehension, and basic mobility. He had nurses to help with the everyday bodily functions, and after a few weeks there wasn't a bit of him that hadn't been picked over. It took up a lot of his time, and there were some days that I didn't even get to see him while he was awake, thanks to his new schedule.

On the plus side, Shawn was definitely improving. Not dramatically, but noticeably. Shawn still wasn't speaking, but he could answer any question as long as you had a variety of responses ready to pick from. He could sit in a wheelchair, and even propel himself a little with his arms, although his physical coordination was still pretty shaky. His legs wouldn't support his weight, but he could move his toes now, and his memory was getting clearer by the day.

I tried not to push him on the memory thing. The longer he went without remembering, the longer he could stay here without Janich making a problem. Janich came by every few days, but beyond asking Shawn a few awkward questions about how he was doing and passing along a little cop gossip, there was nothing of substance there. I did push Shawn a little bit about his terrible taste in men.

"Seriously, why him?" I asked, chewing on a piece of rank nicotine gum. Shawn had been awake when janitor-me got around to cleaning his room that evening, and I had a little time to spare. "You're too good-looking to be that desperate."

Shawn raised an eyebrow at me. "Please, I know what you normally look like." I'd done a lot of research on Shawn without the faintest bit of guilt; it always paid to know as much as you could about your mark. He was twenty-three, he had an associate's degree in business, he'd grown up in Seattle and worked on the force there for two years before transferring here almost six months ago, and he'd had absolutely zero contact with his family after coming out when he was seventeen. He'd been arrested as a juvie for possession, but the arresting officer had encouraged the judge to give him a break, so Shawn got community service in the local precinct instead of being locked up. You couldn't say the judge didn't have a good sense of irony.

His arresting officer, Sergeant Doug Hamilton, had ended up as Shawn's partner once he made the force. Rumors had swirled about the two of them, but either Doug hadn't been interested or he just hadn't been out like Shawn. He'd died when their cruiser was struck by a semitruck during a car chase. Shawn had been the one driving. He'd asked for a transfer right after the funeral.

"Here," I told Shawn, pulling a pad of notepaper out of my back pocket. "I'll write down some options, you pick the one that best describes Detective Janich." I grabbed the pen from his chart and scrawled out: better in bed than he looks, overall low maintenance, and just bored out of my fucking mind. I showed him the list and he laughed silently, and shook his head a little. The smile he wore turned to a grimace of discomfort as the headshake rattled his brain.

I waited for his grimace to pass, but it didn't. Shawn stared down at his hands and clenched them slowly, and his jaw tightened. He looked angry and upset, but I didn't think it was because of me. Nevertheless, I thought he might like some space. "You want me to go?"