They were talking about money, I think – insurance, and how Lucas didn't have any, how they were perfectly able to pay his bills. I lifted my head a little, and the movement of my body dislodged the book of Plato where it was wedged between knee and wrist. It clattered to the floor and all three of them turned to look at me.
"Mr. Dusk," the doctor said. "Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"
"Sore," I moaned, uncurling my legs from the bench and tilting my head to pop the bones in my neck.
"That's to be expected. I'll have a nurse bring you some painkillers. These are Lucas's parents, they'd like to speak with you," he added, sweeping a hand at the fashionable woman and the tidy man. "Ma'am, sir, this is Christopher Dusk, he's the one who brought your son to the hospital."
"Pleasure to meet you," Lucas's father said, offering his hand. I shook it, wanting to tuck my bandaged left hand behind my back but not sure how to do it subtly. "Though not under the circumstances."
"No, of course not," I agreed, as his wife came forward and clasped my hand in both of hers, briefly, limply.
"We're so grateful to you for helping Lucas," she said. "Did they make you stay on that bench all night?"
"Hm?" I asked, looking down at it. "Oh, I wanted to...uh, in case he woke up. Is he?"
"Not yet," his father said. "He should soon."
His mother invited herself to sit on the bench next to me, though she carefully avoided touching my mud-spattered pants.
"I thought this might happen," she confided. "Goodness knows we've tried everything."
"Best psychiatrists, best schools," his father added. "Did everything right."
"We just don't know how he ended up so lost."
I glanced sidelong at her. She seemed to expect me to say something.
"But, well, I suppose you can't babysit them forever," she said, when she saw I wasn't going to reply. "People make their own choices, don't they?"
"Lucas certainly did," I said bitterly. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but his parents didn't look hurt; they didn't look anything, really. Mannequins, stiffly playing a role.
"I told him moving all the way out to the country like that – no offense – wouldn't be good for him," his mother continued, and continued, and continued in a monologue of parental remonstration and dissatisfaction for a good ten minutes, punctuated with interjections from his father. Oh, they expressed all the proper concerns and said all the things people are supposed to say, but with a disaffected air that spoke volumes about Lucas's childhood. That a passionate, creative man should be the product of two such lifeless, automated drones never fails to perplex me – but it tells me a lot about why he was so hesitant, so completely immobilized at the thought of interacting with others. He had grown up in a world where there was a single way of doing things, and every action had a proper response. Outside of their small sphere he was lost and confused: for every situation, a new code to decipher, for every person he met a new set of memorized ways of speaking and acting. No wonder he preferred masks.
I was just grateful they didn't offer to pay me for my services, to be honest.
"Has he ever tried this before?" I asked abruptly, and both of them shot me a sharp look.
"No," his father said.
"Though I always thought..." his mother tapped a finger against her lips. "I thought he was waiting for something. Maybe for the right time," she added with a shrug. "What do you do in your little town, if I can ask?"
"I sell books," I said. "I have a shop."
"Oh, he likes books," she said.
"Apparently not enough," I murmured. There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Well, we're looking into clinics," his father said. "For this kind of thing, you know. We'll get him into the best program possible."
I thought about Lucas being put in a clinic, in a program – no privacy, no way to avoid human interaction. I didn't really think it would do him much good, and on the off-chance it could it would kill him faster than it could help him.
Fortunately I was saved from replying by a doctor, who put his head in the doorway to Lucas's room and then leaned out again.
"He's awake, if you'd like to see him," he said.
"Mr. Dusk?" his mother asked.
"Oh – no, I don't think so, you go first," I said, because I saw someone coming down the corridor and knew I was about to be dragged out of the hospital anyway. "I'll see him a little later."
They didn't seem inclined to argue; they ducked inside the door and let it close behind them, though I could hear their voices distantly.
"Well," said Angie, putting her hands on her hips, Brent and Mara behind her, "your insane friend Marjorie wasn't kidding about you, was she?"
***
As it turned out, Marjorie had called the few of my friends she could get hold of and ordered them to take me out for breakfast. Most of them were cheerfully skipping work to do so, and had called the others in for backup – including my replacement, Derek. I told them that the poisoning had been accidental, playing up their already-formed impression of my village as a country-bumpkin town. They took me to a restaurant downtown, fussed over my bandaged hand until it was time to order the food, and then moved on to Low Ferry.
"It must be nice, though," said Steve, picking to pieces the trendy fusion breakfast sandwich he'd bought. "I mean, we can laugh about someone eating hemlock instead of parsley, but all your veggies must be really organic and stuff."
"Who cares about organic?" Mara asked. "I don't want bugs in my bananas and herbal death in my salad, thanks."
I studied the pancakes I'd ordered, pushing around a little pool of syrup with my fork. "We get a lot of stuff trucked in, anyway, especially in winter."
"Is it expensive to live there?" Angie inquired.
I thought about that for quite a while. "What we buy costs more sometimes, I guess. But we don't buy as much."
"No malls, huh?"
"No, no malls."
"Do you miss the city?" Brent asked. The others glared at him as if he'd made an indecent suggestion.