“Really?” Mike asks. “And when was that?”
“Pardon?”
“When did you become a doctor?”
Doc laughs. “Years and years ago. I’m not the young man I—”
“What year?”
He stops laughing. “Why?”
“Because I don’t think you can tell me.”
“Of course I can, Mike. I just don’t see why it’s relevant. It’s—” He shakes his head. “I won’t be pulled into this with you, Mike. These… these events of yours. I just want to help you. I’m not going to say anything to anyone unless you ask me to. It’s part of the Hippocratic oath. Mike, I’m just worried about you. What if you hurt someone?”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone, you—”
“But you don’t know that for sure, do you?” Doc says, taking a step toward him. “You don’t know that for sure, Mike. You could be fine, just dandy, even. One moment everything is bright skies and stolen kisses, and the next you’re standing above someone you love as they cower beneath you, skin broken and bloody. You won’t know how you got there. You won’t know what happened. Do you know about that, Mr. Hughes? Do you know what it means to have someone absolutely terrified of you? Why it’s—”
“What did you call me?” Mike whispers.
“Mike,” Doc says. “I said Mike.”
“You said Mr. Hughes.”
Doc takes a step back. “You misheard me. That’s all.”
“No, I didn’t. You called me Mr. Hughes. Are you okay there, Doc? Maybe you’re the one that’s hallucinating.”
“It’s not like that—”
And then Doc’s eyes slide unfocused, and his jaw slackens. He’s not falling forward, somehow able to keep himself propped up. But his shoulders slump and his head tilts forward, and it’s like he’s shutting down, like They Came from Outer Space and are turning him off. It lasts for four, six seconds.
Then he coughs.
Rolls his shoulders. Shakes his head.
Looks up. Says, “Hey, Mike. I was just on my way to Happy’s to play poker. Must have gotten sidetracked. It got dark quick, huh?”
This is the moment when Mike Frazier realizes there’s nothing he can do to stop it all from happening.
So he doesn’t.
exeunt
XVIII
THAT NIGHT, he lies awake, listening to the voices in the living room. He can hear them louder now. This doesn’t surprise him. He’s curious about what they say, but it’s a mild thing. Barely there.
“You can’t go back. You can’t. You can’t go back in there, Malcolm.”
“Julienne, look, it’s not as if—”
“What are you hoping to do?”
“You know what I’m doing. You know what this is for. You know what’s happening. What he is. What if we—”
“At what cost?”