Chapter 3- Rise and Shine
Nathaniel opened his eyes.
The same constellation of blinding white suns greeted him. The same masked face of the surgeon was hovering over his abdomen, scalpel in hand. There was a new, metallic scraping sensation deep inside him.
Wait.
He had closed his eyes. He had felt the scalpel. He had... dreamed? For a long, long time. He had died a dozen times. He had heard a woman weeping.
And yet.
He tilted his head just enough to see the surgeon's hands, now holding a pair of forceps, carefully working at the rebar buried in his gut. The rod shifted with a gritty, unpleasant vibration against his spine.
the dry voice murmured, sounding almost bored.
Oh, for heaven's sake, Nathaniel thought, a wave of pure, unadulterated weariness washing over him. I have to sit through the whole thing awake? What a hassle.
The surgeon chose that moment to glance up at his face. The man's eyes, visible above the mask, widened into perfect circles of terror. His hands froze. The heart monitor continued its single, steady, mocking beep.
"Nurse," the surgeon whispered, his voice strangled. "He's... he's awake."
Nathaniel sighed, the breath hissing through his teeth. "Just get on with it, would you? I've got a niece to pick up."
He took a deep, deliberate breath as the surgeon, with a final, terrified yank, pulled the rusted rebar free with a sickening squelch. The relief was not from the end of pain, but from the end of the inconvenience.
The heart monitor didn't even stutter. The surgeon, the rebar finally in his hands, stared at Nathaniel with unvarnished terror. A scalpel clattered to the floor as a nurse backed away.
"Just a local next time, if you have one," Nathaniel said, closing his eyes. "The general anesthetic is a waste of money."
What followed was a blur of panicked whispers, a flurry of unnecessary tests, and a discharge form shoved into his hand. He was a medical anomaly, and the hospital was eager to be rid of him.
Dawn was breaking as Nathaniel stepped outside, wearing paper-thin scrubs and the pervasive smell of antiseptic. The city was waking up. Cars began to flow. He had no phone, no wallet, and a thirteen-year-old niece waiting for him across town.
Maybe I should stop by a supermarket, get a suit, and freshen up.
*********
Mabel had been ready for three hours.
Her backpack was zipped, her single suitcase sat by the door of her foster parents' apartment, and she was perched on the arm of the sofa, staring at the silent phone. The social worker, Ms. Gable, had said her uncle would call by 8 a.m. It was 8:17.
"He'll call, honey," said Mrs. Davies from the kitchen doorway, her voice dripping with a pity Mabel had come to despise. "I'm sure he's just running a bit late."
Mabel didn't answer. Running late was Uncle Nathan's default state. Forgetting entirely was also high on the list. But he'd promised. After the funeral, he'd knelt in front of her, his golden eyes surprisingly serious, and promised he'd come. "No more foster homes, Mabes. You're with me."
She believed the intention. It was his ability to follow through that was a constant, flickering question mark.
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. What if he'd changed his mind? What if he'd simply... forgotten? She could picture it so easily: him waking up on his old couch, blinking at the noon light, and suddenly remembering with a jolt of panic that he was supposed to have picked up his orphaned niece.
She hugged her knees tighter. She wouldn't cry. Crying was for kids who still believed in reliable things.
She lost her father when she was 3 and her mom a few weeks back. Uncle Nate never really liked her father. Maybe it's because he died, or he just wanted someone to put the blame on. But she never really hated Uncle Nate, because he was around much more than her father, even though he slept most of the time he visited.
The phone rang.
Mabel flinched, her heart leaping into her throat. Mrs. Davies moved to answer it, but Mabel was faster. She snatched the receiver.
"Hello?" Her voice was smaller than she wanted it to be.
There was a pause on the other end, filled with the sound of distant traffic and a slow, weary breath.
"Mabel." It was him. He sounded... tired. More than usual. Like he'd been running for miles. "Sorry. Got... held up. I'm on my way."
The knot in her stomach loosened, replaced by a familiar, weary affection. He'd come. Of course he'd come. He was a mess. But he held on to promises and oaths like they were some kind of sacred pacts.
"Okay, Uncle Nate," she said, her voice steady now. "I'll be waiting."
She hung up and looked at Mrs. Davies. "He's on his way."
She picked up her backpack and went to wait by the window, her eyes scanning the street for a man who moved like every step was a negotiation with gravity itself.