Godspeed by February Grace

more unannounced visits here, and whatever else you do, for Heaven's sake, do not let Godspeed know you have seen our guest.” He then gave the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder and a gentle push away from the entrance to the laboratory.
    “What is that?” Schuyler asked. He nodded to me as if to say he would be right back and stepped outside with the boy.
    My ears barely picked up on exceptionally soft-spoken words, too difficult to make out from my location amidst the ticking clocks and machines that whirred and hummed all around me, even at lowest possible power. Then I heard Schuyler's reply spoken much more clearly — and the idea of the question that the boy had asked him brought a rising ache to my throat.
    “He does what he can to control her pain,” Schuyler said, before he added, “He does the best he can for her, as he does for us all.”
    I blinked back new tears, tainted liquid that stung and tasted bitterly of chemicals. How kind it was of the boy, having seen what had become of me, to consider that I might suffer.
    Schuyler returned to the room and approached me wearing a much brighter expression than he had a moment before. “No damage done, I suppose.”
    “Who… was that?”
    “A young friend.” He began rifling through a large, ornately decorated bag, the long strap of which was slung over his broad shoulder. “No one you need worry about. I assure you he poses no threat. He was merely curious.”
    “Of that… I am certain.” I tried to ask the next question that had been so much on my mind in as casual a manner as possible. “When is… Doctor Godspeed to… return?”
    Schuyler grinned now and widened his eyes playfully. “Lonely for him, are we?”
    Blood rushed to my face. I was certain it glowed with embarrassment.
    Schuyler laughed. “So am I. He's been gone too long. He should be back soon.” He looked down at me and shook his head with much the same sympathy as the first night we had met — a kind concern that never crossed the line and mutated into the condescension that was pity.
    “You poor thing. You've spent so much time on that table. We've tried to turn you, you know, in your sleep, after your… procedures.” His eyes flashed a myriad of conflicted feelings, and I wondered what turmoil dwelled within him. Like most strong emotions I had seen in him during my time here, this confusion was again replaced in an instant by a much more lighthearted look. “And here you are, still wearing a sheet.”
    I shuddered. I hadn't given any thought at all to what I was wearing. Most of the time I was covered in blankets, burning with such heat that I wished I could immerse myself in water alone, as anything touching my skin only added a new dimension to my torment. I tried to lift myself up to see, but still I could not move.
    “I think we can take these off, can't we?” Schuyler asked.
    I was afraid that Quinn would be angry but Schuyler was already unbinding my hands and feet from the restraints that held me to the table. He rushed across the room, procured a richly upholstered pillow from a chair in the corner, and situated it behind me as he attempted to help me sit up, just a little.
    “There you are.”
    I looked down and blushed even more deeply to see that he had not been making a joke: I was actually wearing a sheet that had been pinned together at points, allowing, I was sure, the doctor access to the parts of me that he had renovated in order to keep my heart beating.
    I caught sight once more of the topmost arc of the wires threaded in and out of my chest. Then I glimpsed the incisions still healing around them and felt as if I might be sick.
    “Don't look.” Schuyler shook his head fiercely and caressed my face with a gentle stroke of his hand. “Not yet. It's too soon.” He looked at me with a concern that I did not feel due, and I wondered again why it was he had such a soft spot for me, a veritable stranger. I imagined the only explanation could be that his