Race for the Dying by Steven F. Havill

outside. Shall I go on?”
    â€œIf it gives you pleasure, Dr. Thomas. You slept through dinner, but Gert has prepared a plate for you. Do you think you can sit up a little straighter?”
    â€œSlept through?” he asked. “How is that possible? And yes, please…anything,” Thomas replied fervently.
    â€œMy goodness, yes,” she chided. “We’re going on the third day now, after all.” She stood back and watched. Thomas waited. “You see?” she said after a moment.
    â€œSee what?”
    â€œIf you want to get out of bed, the first step will be to sit up by yourself.”
    He grimaced with impatience. “Of course,” he said. “I just thought…” He pushed carefully, trying to turn this way and that, finding an impasse with each movement until he could feel the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
    â€œNow, let me—” Alvi said, moving close.
    â€œNo,” he snapped. He held up his left hand.
    â€œAt least let me manage the pillows,” she said, and in a moment he rested back against the feather pillows. “So,” she continued, “right after you’ve had a bit to eat, we’ll go for a bracing stroll down to the harbor and back.”
    He saw the twinkle in her eyes. Again her fingers ran down his cheek. “You fancy a beard?” she asked, and he stumbled over an appropriate reply, unused to young women so forward in nature.
    â€œNo. I had one once,” he said. “I looked like a dog with the mange.”
    She laughed and smoothed the sheet a bit, pulling it up over his chest. Her face became sober. “The meal will be modest,” she said. “I know that you could eat a banquet right now, but moderation is prudent. With injuries such as yours, nausea is a common companion. We don’t want that.”
    â€œNo, we don’t,” Thomas said. “I am a physician, you know.”
    â€œYes. For better or worse, you are.” She patted his thigh with a familiarity that made him blush. “Gert will be in in a moment.” She pointed at the corner, and for the first time Thomas saw that the wicker chair there was actually a wheelchair. “If you tolerate food well, then in the morning, we’ll see.”
    As she turned to leave, it seemed urgent to Thomas that Alvi Haines remain, if even for an instant more. “You mentioned that the mill owner might stop by,” he said. “I don’t recall his name.”
    Without so much as a pause, she said over her shoulder, “He did. We enjoyed a fine dinner, but you were asleep. Perhaps when you’re up and about.” She stopped in the hallway. “Mr. Schmidt wishes you well, Dr. Thomas. He looks forward to meeting you.” She disappeared from view, and Thomas let out a long exhalation of resignation.

Chapter Eight
    Well, well,” Dr. John Haines said, and his full beard bobbed. “You’re going to repair very nicely.” He tilted his head back so he could see through his half-glasses. One massive hand rested on top of Thomas’ skull, turning the young man’s head this way and that.
    â€œClose your left eye, now,” he instructed, and Thomas did so, trying not to scrunch up his face. “You know, I’ve seen probably a million sutures in my time. The very best of them were tied by my daughter. Little old ladies who labor over quilts have nothing on her.” He peered into Thomas’ right eye, his thumb applying just enough gentle pressure on the underside of the swollen eyebrow to lift the lid. He hummed to himself thoughtfully. “Am I hurting you?”
    Thomas murmured an untruthful no.
    â€œI’m sorry I missed your excursion this afternoon. Alvi tells me it was spectacular.” With the one hand locked on Thomas’ head, he held the other out at arm’s length, index finger pointing upward. “Follow my finger, Thomas.” His breath was strong with tobacco