Scott dipped his head. “It…has been an undertaking. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually.” Then he looked up, his big eyes meeting Grant’s and he motioned for the door. “The room is no trick. I understand what I’m needing from you…I don’t want to keep you uncomfortable.”
“Yeah. I get it,” Grant replied, following Scott’s lead out of the lab room and into a larger room, with microscopes and other scientific equipment that he didn’t recognize. “Like when they give death row inmates a nice big meal before,” he drew his hand across his throat and made a scratching noise. He was probably being too irreverent, because Lucy’s dad turned around and shot him a disapproving look. There was something satisfying in making him squirm though, even if that wasn’t Grant’s intention.
They reached the far end of the room and Scott opened a door marked “Supply Closet”. Grant made a face.
He had genuinely hoped for a room, not just some glorified temporary shelter, but he supposed it was better than the alternative. Besides, he’d spent enough time in supply rooms to last him a lifetime.
The door opened and Grant peered around Scott.
To his surprise, the closet was huge. Fluorescent lights beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating shelves with various odds and ends. Surprisingly, Scott had been hard at work making the space habitable. He had set up an army cot against one of the walls and then Grant smiled. Stuck to one of the walls with long pieces of masking tape, was the iconic poster for George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead.
“How did you—” Grant trailed off then he looked at Scott, a bit bewildered and confused. Also, touched. Which made the reality of his situation take hold in his chest and suddenly feel oppressive; he wished he hadn’t made light of dying earlier—he was stuck between not wanting to care and believing that he cared too much.
“I know a guy who knows a guy…who knows a guy…who brought some old posters with him here. You were in luck, purely coincidental. It was either that or Farrah Fawcett’s red swimsuit poster.”
“Who’s Farrah Fawcett?” Grant asked.
Scott clapped him on the back. “Yeah, believe it or not, I was just a kid when she was popular.” His eyes landed on the poster and he stared at the iconic image. “Forever ago.”
“Three weeks was forever ago,” Grant said and Scott muttered agreement.
“At any rate,” Scott continued, “this will be locked. But look…” He pointed to an old-school TV/VCR set and a stack of videos. “Entertainment. A bed. I can try to get you books?”
“Sure,” Grant answered. He sat down on the cot and bounced on it a bit; Scott King’s own California King size bed had been his most comfortable night’s sleep since the Release of the virus, but he refrained from mentioning it, worried about how it would sound. “Why are you doing this for me?” Turning to his captor, Grant tried to search Scott’s face for any sign of what was to come.
“Because,” Scott looked down, “I’d want someone to do this for my son…”
“Do what?”
“Treat him well. Treat him…like he mattered.”
“Do I?” Grant asked in a whisper. “How can you say I matter?”
Scott took a long time before he looked up at Grant. “You do matter. You matter very much…it’s just—”
“I matter more as a science experiment than a person?” Grant crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it, Mr. King. I do.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Scott said after a moment. “You matter as both. You need to know that I can’t save you. It won’t matter what happens, what you say, how much I think you deserve to live. There is a greater good, a bigger picture. And—”
“Okay,” Grant interrupted and he put up his hand. Nothing had changed from before; the writing on the wall was bright red and clear.
“But I don’t know how long you’ll be here…”
“I already said okay.”
Scott looked like he didn’t want to leave. His eyes scanned the room and he pointed out the blankets, he asked if Grant was hungry, he was stalling, and Grant didn’t know why.
“Mr. King,” Grant said after there was an awkward break. “I’m going to be okay. You can go if you want.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be back. Running the blood work. Here, I need a swab too.” Scott uncapped a long cotton-tipped stick and instructed Grant to swipe the underside of his cheek with the tip. Then he capped it back and put it in his coat. “Thank you.” He hesitated and then left; there was a distinct clicking and locking, and then the sound of retreating footsteps on tile.
Once Grant thought he was alone, he went over to the door and turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. Then he turned and rested his back and took a look around. He couldn’t help but grin: from one closet to another. Except this time he was alone. And there was no chance of clandestine mobility. And he hadn’t asked Lucy’s dad about going to the bathroom.
While sharing a small space with two girls had been occasionally annoying, he also enjoyed Lucy and Salem’s company during their time in the Pacific Lake storage room. He knew that this would be different.
Grant took a step forward and stared at the procured poster. An odd offering, to say the least. Yet, he was comforted by the small act of kindness. Scott King told him that it wouldn’t change his future, and perhaps that was true, but it did give him a strange sort of hope.
Hope wasn’t bad. Hope could sustain him.
That, and the thought of Lucy somewhere in the EUS Two: enjoying time with her family, eating a hot meal, maybe playing a game with her brothers, reading a book to her sister. He closed his eyes and pictured her enjoying a bath. A real bath.
“Father God,” Grant prayed out loud, unsurprised by his own voice in the small space, “let her just forget I’m here. Just for tonight. Please? If she wants to take up a ‘Free Grant’ cause tomorrow, then I’m all for it. And you know that I’m asking because she deserves just some time…to adjust to her family. I, of all people, can understand that. Just protect her. And have her forget about me. I want her to feel normal again. I don’t want her to hurt anymore. Amen.” Even as the request left his mouth, he knew that he was asking God for a miracle.
CHAPTER TEN
The den was comfortable. Light poured in during the day. A fire flooded the room with an amber glow in the nighttime. Sometimes Ethan asked Darla or Ainsley to crank the Victrola and he’d listen to the scratchy records over and over—there was a surreal quality to his life, and the lack of electricity and the old-fashioned music helped transport him to a different time completely. His pain hadn’t subsided, but his general disposition moved into a more melancholy state, with brief periods of acceptance. When Ethan felt sad about his leg or angry that he wasn’t whole, he let himself daydream about Nebraska.
His family would come for him. And then, when they did, maybe he would be in a place where a prosthetic was a possibility. Dreams of the future sustained him.
“And crabwalk to the bookcase with a beanbag on your head!” Teddy giggled and Ethan smirked as Darla sighed and then set a blue beanbag atop her head and shifted into the crabwalk position.
Darla’s parental resourcefulness crafted a game that kept Teddy busy and amused for long periods of time. The rules were fluid and the activities ever-changing, but the basic idea was the same: they would spread out 52 playing cards out along the carpet of the den. Seven of them were marked with a black X. The rest were marked with symbols that stood for Story, Activity or Task. While the activities varied, the person who drew the seventh X was the loser and the other remaining opponent the victor.