Shire Bottom Chronicles

Chapter Fifteen

Matt tossed and turned restlessly. His eyes shot open, and he sucked in a mouthful of air, heart pounding wildly against his ribs. He glanced around, feeling disoriented. Pale light crept under the door, and he recognized the sterile white walls of his room.

"Matt, it's okay, you were dreaming." Rory's voice reached him from far away. She leaned over the bed, and her face swam into focus. He shivered in a cold sweat, clutching the blanket tighter around himself. "Go back to sleep. I'm right here with you," Rory whispered. He saw Pamela slide a needle into his IV line and felt himself drift off.

When Matt woke up again, his mind felt clearer. Every bone and muscle in his body ached. Tubes were still running out of his hand, and he wondered what they were pouring into him. Since he came out of sedation, Dr. Witherspoon and Pamela had monitored his progress, changing the IV bags, and taking vital signs. They allowed him to sit up on the edge of the bed, but only for a few minutes at a time. He felt trapped in this closet-like room; from the bed, all he could see was a sliver of the outside world.

Rory stayed with him most of the day, and Komazzi was trying to get back on his regular schedule. Matt saw him through the window, talking on his cellphone. But the scary thing was, he couldn't really hear the conversation. He used to be able to listen perfectly, even with the door closed. There was a whiteboard by the door with a bunch of writing scribbled on it. He squinted and could just barely make out the words. He thought about asking Komazzi what was going on, but he was too exhausted.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but when Matt opened his eyes again, Pamela bounced into the room, wearing that fake smile she often used with test subjects. That couldn't possibly mean anything good. He watched her warily as she opened the window blinds, flooding the room with light. "Good morning!" she chirped.

"What day is it?" Matt asked, noticing that his hand was free of the IV. His fingers brushed over a jagged cut on his arm. It was about three inches long. "What the fuck happened to my arm?"

"It's Monday—you've been here for two weeks," Pamela replied, popping a thermometer into his mouth before he could say anything else. "Your body rejected the implant, so they had to remove it. But Dad stitched you up, and it's healing well." Komazzi had warned her that Matt didn't need to know the truth yet, and she was surprised at how easily the lie came to her. She slipped the thermometer out of his mouth and wrote something on her clipboard.

"I've had that chip for six months." Matt frowned, realizing that without it, he was doomed once more to clinic visits. Every six months, he would be poked and prodded, tormented by the harsh reality of his disease. "Why would I reject it after all this time?"

"It happens." Pamela shrugged. She glanced down at her paperwork. "We have tests to run today, and if everything looks good, you might be able to go home tomorrow."

Home, Matt thought. He'd almost forgotten what it was like beyond the door of his room. He lay in bed at night, terrified he would never see home again. He had lost weeks of his life to this illness, but he was finally getting out of here.

* * *
Bane drummed his fingers impatiently on Komazzi's desk and glared at the ticking clock. "Where the hell is Mordecai? He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!" He hated waiting for people. It was normal for Cat to be fashionably late, but he expected everyone else to show up at meetings when he told them to. His eyes swept over the room. The heavy curtains were shut, blocking out the sun. Komazzi was sitting behind the desk, quietly drinking blood from a wine glass.

Mordecai breezed into the room. "I got held up on the phone," he explained, oblivious to Bane shooting daggers at him. He opened a Manila folder and withdrew a sheet of paper. "All of the results are in. There's no trace of poison, and the drugs are forcing the virus back into remission."