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By Root 1529 0

Bella . . . I pray for her. I pray every day. You realize it’s been six weeks now? Six weeks. (comes back with a plastic container that she puts into the microwave) I can’t imagine what those lessers . . . (clears throat, then hits buttons, little beeping sounds rising up, followed by a whirring) Well, anyway. Tohr’s not even trying to talk sense into Z. No one is. It’s like . . . something snapped in him with that abduction. In a way—and I know this is going to come out wrong—I wish Z’d find her body. Otherwise there’s no closure, and he’ll be completely insane by New Year’s. And more dangerous than he already is. (microwave stops and beeps)

J.R.:

Do you think it’s . . . I’m not sure what the word is . . . maybe astonishing that he cares as much as he does?

Wellsie:

(pours ginger sauce on the rice, puts the container in the dishwasher, then takes out napkin and spoon) Totally astonishing. At first it gave me hope . . . you know, that he cared about someone, something. Now? I’m even more worried. I can’t see this sitch ending well. At all. Come on, let’s go to John’s room.

I follow Wellsie out of the kitchen and through a long living room that is done in a great mix of modern architectural details and antique furniture and art. At the far end we head into the wing of bedrooms. John’s is the last one before the master suite that anchors the left side of the house. As we get closer, I hear . . .

J.R.:

Is that—

Wellsie:

Yup. Godzilla marathon. (pushes open door and says quietly) Hey. How are we doing?

John’s bedroom is navy blue, and the bureau, headboard, and desk have a Frank Lloyd Wright feel to them, all sleek wood. In the electric glow of the television I see John in the bed on his side, his skin as pale as his white sheets, his cheeks flaming red from fever. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s breathing through his open mouth with a slight wheeze. Tohr is right next to him, propped up against the headboard, the Brother’s huge body making John look like a two-year-old. Tohr’s arm is outstretched, and John is wrapped around it.

Tohr:

(nodding at me and blowing a kiss to his shellan) Not good. I think the fever is higher. (As he says this, across the way on the TV, Godzilla lets out a roar and starts trampling buildings . . . kind of like what the virus is doing inside of John.)

Wellsie:

(putting bowl down and leaning over Tohr) John?

John’s eyes flutter open and he tries to sit up, but Wellsie puts her hands on his cheeks and murmurs to him to stay down. As she talks to John softly, Tohr leans forward and puts his head on her shoulder. He’s exhausted, I realize, no doubt from staying up and worrying about John.

Looking at the three of them together, I am so happy for John, but also a little shaken. It’s hard not to picture him in his decrepit studio apartment in that rat-infested building, sick and alone. The what-if’s are just too disturbing. To keep my head from rattling, I focus on Tohr and Wellsie and the fact that they’ve made him part of a family now.

After a moment Wellsie sits down next to Tohr, who makes room for her by drawing up his legs. His free hand, the one John is not holding, goes to her belly.

Wellsie:

(shaking her head) I’m calling Havers.

Tohr:

Should we take him in?

Wellsie:

That’ll be up to the clinic.

Tohr:

Range Rover’s got the chains on. You pull the trigger, I’m behind the wheel.

Wellsie:

(patting his leg, then standing up) Which is exactly why I mated you.

Wellsie leaves and I hang in the doorway, feeling useless. God, there were all kinds of questions I had to ask Tohr, but now none of them matter.

J.R.:

I should go.

Tohr:

(rubbing his eyes) Yeah, probably. Sorry about all this.

J.R.:

Please . . . not at all. You have to take care of him.

Tohr:

(looking down at John) Yes, we do.

Wellsie returns, and the verdict from the doctor is that John has to go in. Fritz is called to come pick me up, but it’s going to take him time to get back, so I’m told how to lock the house after I leave. I follow as