UnSouled (Unwind Dystology 3)

Lev lifts his shirt, and Connor grimaces as his worst fear is realized. The accident didn’t just dislocate Lev’s shoulder. His whole side has turned sunset purple. There’s internal bleeding, and there’s no way to know how bad it is.

“Lordy, lordy, lordy,” Grace says, her voice shaky. “You shouldn’t a’ hit him! You shouldn’t a’ hit him!”

“Okay,” Connor says, feeling himself getting light-headed. “Okay, now we know.”

“What do we know?” warbles Grace in a panic. “We don’t know nothin’!”

“You know my deep dark secret,” Lev says lazily. “I’m turning into an eggplant.” He tries to laugh at his own joke, but the laugh is aborted because it causes him too much pain.

Risa would know what to do, Connor thinks. He tries to hear her voice in his head. The clarity of her thought. She ran the infirmary at the Graveyard better than a professional. Tell me what to do, Risa. But today she’s mute and feels farther away than she ever did. It only increases Connor’s longing for her and his despair. When they get to Sonia, she’ll have a whole list of physicians supporting the cause, but this is still Kansas. Ohio never felt so far away.

He glances at the glove compartment. People sometimes keep ibuprofen or Aspirin in there, although he doesn’t expect that much luck, considering how his luck has been running lately. Luck, however, is too dumb to remain consistent, and as he reaches over and opens the glove box, a clatter of orange vials spills out.

Connor releases a breath of sheer relief and begins tossing them to Grace in the back. “Read me what they are,” Connor says, and Grace almost preens at the request. Whatever developmental issues she has, difficulty in reading complicated words is not one of them. She rattles off medication names Connor probably couldn’t even pronounce himself. Some of them he recognizes; others he is clueless about. One thing’s for sure—whoever belongs to this car is either very sick, a hypochondriac, or just a druggie.

Among the medications in the dashboard pharmacy are Motrins the size of horse pills and hydrocodone caplets almost as big.

“Great,” he tells Grace. “Give Lev those two. One of each.”

“With nothing to drink?” asks Grace.

Connor catches Lev’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, Lev—either swallow them dry or chew them. We can’t stop for drinks right now, and better you get those meds in your system now than wait.”

“Don’t make him do that!” Grace complains. “It’ll taste bad.”

“I’ll deal,” Lev says. Connor doesn’t like how weak his voice sounds.

Lev works up some saliva, pops both pills at once, and manages to swallow them with just a little bit of gagging.

“Okay. Good,” says Connor. “We’ll stop in the next town and get ice to help with the swelling.”

Connor convinces himself that Lev’s situation isn’t all that bad. It’s not like bone is poking through the skin or anything. “You’ll be fine,” Connor tells Lev. “You’ll be fine.”

But even after they get ice ten miles down the road, Connor’s mantra of “you’ll be fine,” just isn’t ringing true. Lev’s side is darkening to a dull, puffy maroon. His left hand and fingers are swelling too, looking cartoonish and porcine. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Grace’s words echo in Connor’s thoughts. He catches Lev’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Lev’s eyes are wet and rheumy. He can barely keep them open.

“Stay awake, Lev!” Connor says a bit too loudly. “Grace, make him stay awake.”

“You heal when you sleep,” Grace tells him.

“Not if you’re going into shock. Stay awake, Lev!”

“I’m trying.” His voice is beginning to slur. Connor wants to believe it’s because of the medication, but he knows better.

Connor keeps his eyes fixed on the road. Their options are slim and the reality severe. But then Lev says, “I know a place we can go.”

“Another joke?” asks Connor.

“I hope not.” Lev takes a few slow breaths before he can build up the strength, or perhaps the courage, to tell them. “Get me to the Arápache Rez. West of Pueblo, Colorado.”

Connor knows Lev must be delirious. “A ChanceFolk reservation? Why would ChanceFolk have anything to do with us?”

“Sanctuary,” Lev hisses. “ChanceFolk never signed the Unwind Accord. The Arápache don’t have an extradition treaty. They give asylum to AWOL Unwinds. Sometimes.”

“Asylum is right!” says Grace. “No way I’m going to a SlotMonger rez!”

“You sound like Argent,” Connor scolds. That gives her pause for thought.

Connor considers their options. Seeking asylum from the Arápache would mean turning around and heading west, and even if they pushed the car, it would take at least four hours to get to the reservation. That’s a long time for the state that Lev’s in. But it’s either that, or turn themselves in at the nearest hospital. That’s not an option.