Nameless, Chapter Twelve

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

PLEASE NOTE: Chapters Eleven and Twelve were posted together, so be sure you read Chapter Eleven first. Thanks!

One more chapter after this and then it's done, folks...thanks for coming along for the ride! :D

TWELVE

At the hospital in Chicago they took the makeshift bandages off my hand and disinfected it, then stitched up the worst of the ripped flesh. I didn't see what had happened to Lucas, but I assumed they were doing whatever it was they did to poison victims. The doctor in the emergency room, once he saw the shape of the bite mark, ordered them to give me three or four bruising injections, including a Rabies vaccine. They took my muddy shirt away but left me my pants and my dignity, more or less.

I nursed my needle-wounds for a while, my hand wrapped in a proper white bandage and throbbing distantly through the painkillers, until someone brought me a scrub shirt. I put it on, then slipped away from the exam bed and found a pay-phone.

I called Charles in Low Ferry, intending to let him know where we were, but nobody answered to accept charges. I tried Paula and then Richard but I guessed the phones had gone down when the snow blew in. I tried Eighth Rare Books and got no answer there either, which was surprising until I checked a clock on the wall and found it was past eight in the evening.

After wracking my brain I managed to remember Marjorie's home number. To my relief, she answered the phone and accepted the collect-call charge.

"Christopher, is that you?" she asked in greeting. "Why are you calling collect?"

"I'm at the hospital," I said.

"Oh, my god, your heart – "

"It's not my heart."

"Well..." she trailed off. "Were you mugged?"

"I wasn't mugged," I said. "I'm fine, Marj, just shaken up."

"You sound exhausted. I didn't know you were in Chicago."

I laughed, which probably sounded horrible. "I wasn't, this afternoon. I was airlifted in."

"What do you need? Money? A ride home? If you need a kidney, sweetheart, I'm good for it."

"No, Marj, nothing like that. Can you come down?"

"Of course. What hospital? I'll leave now."

"Can you bring me a book?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Did you just ask me for a book?" she asked.

"Yeah. Sorry – "

"Any particular book?" she said sharply.

"Yeah, um. Plato. Anything with Phaedo in an English translation. Please."

"Christopher, what – " she started, but I was already hanging up. It must have frightened her, and I still feel bad about that, but I wasn't trying to be rude or obscure. I was tired, and I didn't have the mental strength to explain any further.

A young doctor with a clipboard in her hand was standing nearby, watching me patiently. When I let go of the receiver, she smiled.

"Mr. Dusk?"

"That's me."

"I have good news," she said. "Your friend's in intensive care. They've pumped his stomach for good measure, but he should be fine."

I slumped onto a nearby bench, suddenly finding it difficult to stand. "Well, that's something," I said. She frowned, then dismissed it.

"You're fast," she continued. "The paramedics said you told them you made him vomit, which was smart. Although I have to say, it doesn't seem like you were very gentle about it. He has some bruising on his chest and face."

"I was more worried about the poison."

"Well, that's good thinking. I hate to have to ask this right now, but..." she tapped her pen against her clipboard. "Are you his next-of-kin?"

"I doubt it," I said. "Don't you have this stuff on file somewhere?"

"Well, that's the thing. He hasn't got any ID on him, so we haven't been able to find his records yet. If you could fill out his information, that would be really helpful."

She held out the clipboard and I took it, looking down at the admission form. Height and weight I could estimate, hair and eye color I knew, and I was pretty sure he didn't have any allergies. It was the bit at the top that was giving me trouble.

"I don't know his last name," I said finally.

"But you do know him?" she asked.

"We're friends. I thought we were, anyway."

"What about his address?"

"He doesn't really have one. He was living outside of town, he never got any mail. I don't know what his address in Chicago was, but he used to live here. I can find out," I added, when she tried to take the clipboard back. She let go when she saw I wasn't going to release it. We sat in silence for a while.

"Mr. Dusk, he didn't eat that hemlock accidentally, did he?" she asked.

It wasn't that I didn't want to admit what he'd done. He was going to get an earful about it from me when he woke up, and I was the reason he was going to wake up at all. Well, really the boy was. But the point was that I wasn't in denial. I just didn't want to make any trouble for him.

"Do we need to put him on a suicide watch?" she asked gently.

"He's shy," I said. "He's private, he doesn't like people bothering him. I don't want them to try and commit him. He's not crazy. He's just a little messed up."

"You'd be surprised how often I hear that," she said. "Though not usually from someone who nearly lost a thumb being heroic. I'll have the nurses keep an eye on him, how's that sound?"

"Good," I said. "I'll...fill this out and give it back to you."

She patted my arm and left me there, pen clenched in my fingers, cheap plastic clipboard resting on my knee. Nearby, in the waiting room for the ER, a shabbily-dressed man was sleeping in a chair and a woman with three small children was plying the older ones with crackers and trying to rock the younger one to sleep. I set the pen down and twisted the hospital bracelet around and around on my wrist. I didn't really have any confidence that I could find someone who knew anything more about Lucas than I did – and I didn't think the doctor believed I could either. If I didn't know his last name, who in Low Ferry would?

Marjorie arrived while I was still pondering it. She looked worried and a little furious as she swooped down on me, hugged me, forced me back into the seat I'd just stood up from, and picked up my left hand, cradling it carefully.

"My poor Christopher," she said, wrapping her other arm around my shoulders. "What happened?"

"I was bitten," I said, wiggling my thumb. It burned a little.

"By what?" she asked. "A horse?"

"Another person," I answered.

"For god's sake, what do they do in that evil little village? I hope you've had all your shots."

"Yeah, they gave me a bunch," I said. "It's not what you think."

"Good, because my first thought on hearing that a presumable adult bit you in the hand is that you were nearly a sacrifice in some kind of ghastly Satanic rite," she replied.

"Did you bring the book?" I asked. She sighed, rummaged in a bag slung over one shoulder, and produced a small, paperback copy of Plato's Phaedo. I turned through the pages, searching for the passage I thought I remembered.

He walked about until, as he had told us, his legs began to fail. Then he lay on his back in the way he had been told, and the man who had given him the poison examined his feet and legs. Soon he pressed his foot hard and asked him if he could feel it, and Socrates said "No"; then he pressed his leg, and so upwards, showing us that he was cold and stiff.

And then Socrates felt for himself, and said "When the poison reaches the heart, that will be the end."

"Fool," I muttered. "Classics for why to kill yourself; botany for how."

"Kill yourself?" Marjorie asked, really alarmed now.

"Lucas – the history scholar, I ordered that werewolf book for him for Christmas? He tried to. Kill himself. I think," I said.

"Oh, dear me." Marjorie looked stricken.

"It's a little more violent than Plato thinks it is," I added, closing the book and turning to meet her eyes for the first time. "I had to make him throw up, hence..." I held up my hand.

"You..." she pointed a finger at her open mouth. I nodded. "That requires a certain amount of fortitude. Not that I thought you'd have anything less," she said. "Will he be all right?"

"According to the doctors. He might not be once I get through with him," I said grimly. Marjorie laid a hand on my arm.

"Christopher, let me buy you something to eat," she said. "Somewhere away from here."

"I should stay with Lucas, I'm the only one he knows. Besides, I have to find out what his name is," I said.

"His name?"

"His last name, I mean, I don't know it and they need it for..." I gestured at the clipboard. She waved dismissively.

"They just want to know what insurance to charge. I imagine he hasn't got any."

"God, I don't know..." I rested my face in one hand, the injured one still half-holding the book. I have never felt so at sea – not after my father died, not when I first came to Low Ferry, not during the long malaise that was my life in the city.

If Lucas, who could control the rain and snow, who could grow ice where he walked, who spent his whole life making beautiful things – if Nameless saw the world so darkly that death was preferable...

"Come along, Christopher," Marjorie said. "Just for a few minutes. You've done enough for him."

She took my arm and led me out of the hospital, across the wet early-evening street to the warm yellow circle of a street-lamp. I stopped for a minute and turned my head to look up, but I'd forgotten that the light of the city eclipses the stars. Marjorie threaded her fingers in mine and tugged me gently onward.

We ate in a cheap sandwich shop near the hospital, drinking acidic coffee and speaking very little. I don't know what she must have thought, but my own thoughts were taken up with an endless cycle – he was in a hospital bed and not a morgue drawer, and I was proud to be the one who'd saved him. But at the same time I wondered if he wouldn't hate me for it. And I believed – I still do – in allowing another person to make their own decisions. Always within reason, of course, but that night I was so confused and tired and hurt that I didn't know where suicide fell on the scale of "within reason" anymore.

There was no doubt he was chronically shy and awkward, but not as Nameless; no doubt he stammered and fumbled for words, but Nameless was never required to speak. And these things, you know, are not things to kill oneself over. But the other dogs avoided Nameless, and even the people...

No one had tried to put a collar on him. No one had tried to own him. Not even me. I'd tried not to, actually.

When we returned to the hospital, Marjorie gave me a hug at the entry door.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she said. "I have a guest room you could – "

"No," I said. "Thanks, Marj. I'm staying here tonight."

"Are you sure?"

"I need to," I said.

"I'll come by tomorrow," she replied, and patted my cheek before she walked away.

Inside, I found a police officer outside Lucas's door, and another one inside rolling ink on his unresponsive fingers to take prints. They looked at me suspiciously as they left.

I settled onto a vinyl-upholstered bench in the hallway, curled up with the side of my head resting against the wall, and read Plato for hours.

***

I fell asleep while reading the Republic, and when I woke up it was to soft voices nearby. I opened my eyes and saw a new doctor, standing in front of Lucas's door and speaking to a middle-aged couple: a neat man in khakis and an oxford shirt, a tidy woman with fashionable hair and subtle makeup, even at whatever-time it was in the morning.

They were talking about money, I think – insurance, and how Lucas didn't have any, how they were perfectly able to pay his bills. I lifted my head a little, and the movement of my body dislodged the book of Plato where it was wedged between knee and wrist. It clattered to the floor and all three of them turned to look at me.

"Mr. Dusk," the doctor said. "Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

"Sore," I moaned, uncurling my legs from the bench and tilting my head to pop the bones in my neck.

"That's to be expected. I'll have a nurse bring you some painkillers. These are Lucas's parents, they'd like to speak with you," he added, sweeping a hand at the fashionable woman and the tidy man. "Ma'am, sir, this is Christopher Dusk, he's the one who brought your son to the hospital."

"Pleasure to meet you," Lucas's father said, offering his hand. I shook it, wanting to tuck my bandaged left hand behind my back but not sure how to do it subtly. "Though not under the circumstances."

"No, of course not," I agreed, as his wife came forward and clasped my hand in both of hers, briefly, limply.

"We're so grateful to you for helping Lucas," she said. "Did they make you stay on that bench all night?"

"Hm?" I asked, looking down at it. "Oh, I wanted to...uh, in case he woke up. Is he?"

"Not yet," his father said. "He should soon."

His mother invited herself to sit on the bench next to me, though she carefully avoided touching my mud-spattered pants.

"I thought this might happen," she confided. "Goodness knows we've tried everything."

"Best psychiatrists, best schools," his father added. "Did everything right."

"We just don't know how he ended up so lost."

I glanced sidelong at her. She seemed to expect me to say something.

"But, well, I suppose you can't babysit them forever," she said, when she saw I wasn't going to reply. "People make their own choices, don't they?"

"Lucas certainly did," I said bitterly. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but his parents didn't look hurt; they didn't look anything, really. Mannequins, stiffly playing a role.

"I told him moving all the way out to the country like that – no offense – wouldn't be good for him," his mother continued, and continued, and continued in a monologue of parental remonstration and dissatisfaction for a good ten minutes, punctuated with interjections from his father. Oh, they expressed all the proper concerns and said all the things people are supposed to say, but with a disaffected air that spoke volumes about Lucas's childhood. That a passionate, creative man should be the product of two such lifeless, automated drones never fails to perplex me – but it tells me a lot about why he was so hesitant, so completely immobilized at the thought of interacting with others. He had grown up in a world where there was a single way of doing things, and every action had a proper response. Outside of their small sphere he was lost and confused: for every situation, a new code to decipher, for every person he met a new set of memorized ways of speaking and acting. No wonder he preferred masks.

I was just grateful they didn't offer to pay me for my services, to be honest.

"Has he ever tried this before?" I asked abruptly, and both of them shot me a sharp look.

"No," his father said.

"Though I always thought..." his mother tapped a finger against her lips. "I thought he was waiting for something. Maybe for the right time," she added with a shrug. "What do you do in your little town, if I can ask?"

"I sell books," I said. "I have a shop."

"Oh, he likes books," she said.

"Apparently not enough," I murmured. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well, we're looking into clinics," his father said. "For this kind of thing, you know. We'll get him into the best program possible."

I thought about Lucas being put in a clinic, in a program – no privacy, no way to avoid human interaction. I didn't really think it would do him much good, and on the off-chance it could it would kill him faster than it could help him.

Fortunately I was saved from replying by a doctor, who put his head in the doorway to Lucas's room and then leaned out again.

"He's awake, if you'd like to see him," he said.

"Mr. Dusk?" his mother asked.

"Oh – no, I don't think so, you go first," I said, because I saw someone coming down the corridor and knew I was about to be dragged out of the hospital anyway. "I'll see him a little later."

They didn't seem inclined to argue; they ducked inside the door and let it close behind them, though I could hear their voices distantly.

"Well," said Angie, putting her hands on her hips, Brent and Mara behind her, "your insane friend Marjorie wasn't kidding about you, was she?"

***

As it turned out, Marjorie had called the few of my friends she could get hold of and ordered them to take me out for breakfast. Most of them were cheerfully skipping work to do so, and had called the others in for backup – including my replacement, Derek. I told them that the poisoning had been accidental, playing up their already-formed impression of my village as a country-bumpkin town. They took me to a restaurant downtown, fussed over my bandaged hand until it was time to order the food, and then moved on to Low Ferry.

"It must be nice, though," said Steve, picking to pieces the trendy fusion breakfast sandwich he'd bought. "I mean, we can laugh about someone eating hemlock instead of parsley, but all your veggies must be really organic and stuff."

"Who cares about organic?" Mara asked. "I don't want bugs in my bananas and herbal death in my salad, thanks."

I studied the pancakes I'd ordered, pushing around a little pool of syrup with my fork. "We get a lot of stuff trucked in, anyway, especially in winter."

"Is it expensive to live there?" Angie inquired.

I thought about that for quite a while. "What we buy costs more sometimes, I guess. But we don't buy as much."

"No malls, huh?"

"No, no malls."

"Do you miss the city?" Brent asked. The others glared at him as if he'd made an indecent suggestion.

"Yes, of course I do," I answered automatically. "But I like the village too."

"I'd hope so, Chris. You pulled up stakes quick enough when you moved there. We figured you'd gotten someone pregnant and were trying to avoid them or something."

I laughed a little. "No. I – " I hesitated. I knew they weren't expecting much of me, which was why they were making the whole thing into a joke. Marjorie must have told them – they must have seen – how tired I was. So it probably wasn't fair, what I did, because they were being kind to me, and I didn't return their kindness with the distant vagueness they were expecting.

"Well, obviously, it was after your dad died," Angie prompted.

There was a murmur of sympathetic agreement.

"Dad had a heart condition," I said. "So did I. So do I."

"What, like – "

"I left because the doctors told me if I stayed in the city and kept going like I had, I'd be dead in six months." I folded my napkin and set it next to my plate. I still hadn't looked any of them in the eye. "The air's better in the village and it's quieter there, that's all."

They burst into speech but mostly to each other, asking who knew, who I'd told, if I'd told anyone, who hadn't told if they did know. The food was forgotten – and so, apparently, was I.

"I didn't tell anyone," I said, slightly more loudly than I really had to. They stopped talking, at least. "I didn't tell anyone. I just wanted to...go. And that didn't really work anyway, because when I was here last time it was because I'd passed out and had to go to the hospital, so everyone in Low Ferry knows anyway."

There was an expectant silence.

"So that's why I went there," I said. "It's not why I stayed, I stayed because I love it there, but that's why I went there. And yeah, I missed the city and the idea that I'd make a pile of money and meet someone and have kids here, but I don't miss it very much anymore. I have books and friends in the village and – I have a life there. More than I ever had here."

"I'm so sorry, Chris," Angie said, completely ignoring what I'd just told them. I'd known three years ago that she'd say that if I told her. I didn't want to hear it, but there was no escaping them now. I'd told Lucas as much. You can want to be something other than who you are, but you can't get there by running away.

"I think I should go back to the hospital," I said. They wanted to ask questions, they wanted to come with me, but what we had been in the city and what we were now were too different, and they didn't fight too hard. Angie drove me back to the hospital and left me with a careful, pitying hug I didn't want.

When I walked in, the doctor from the night before was looking for me. Someone had dug up my medical records, finally, and called one of my city doctors, and he'd shouted at them for probably longer than they deserved: I should have my heart examined immediately and be under constant care, the strain of travel to the city and my injury liable to kill me if someone wasn't watching over me.

"So," she said, a little breathlessly, as she explained the situation, "we want you in the hospital for at least another few hours. An electrocardiogram at least."

"What does my insurance say?" I asked sourly.

"I imagine your premiums are high enough," she replied, smiling. "Mr. Dusk, if you want to be certain you're not going to drop dead of heart failure tomorrow, you should have the tests done."

"And what if they tell me I'm going to drop dead of heart failure tomorrow?" I asked. She studied me, fingers twining up the stethoscope's tubing into loops.

"Well, we just won't let that happen," she said finally. "How's your hand feel?"

"My hand feels fine," I answered.

"Good. Come this way."

They put me through a few basic tests, and I was too experienced with them and too tired to worry much about the indignity of sitting in a waiting room in a hospital gown. When we were finally done another doctor wanted to examine my hand, so I had to sit still while he unwound the bandage, prodded at the ragged wound, and gave me a scrutinizing look.

"Looks like a dog bite," he said finally.

"Well, it's a person-bite," I answered. I may have been sharp, but I was more than ready to be done with hospitals for a while.

"See these canines here?" he asked, pointing to two especially deep punctures.

"Look, I got it when I shoved my fingers down someone's throat and they had a spasm," I snapped. "They gave me plenty of shots, so if you could wrap me up again I'd appreciate it."

"Hm. Don't shoot the messenger," he answered, but he bandaged the hand again quickly. "You need the name of a hand specialist?"

"No, thank you."

They left me alone after that, and I rubbed the throbbing heel of my hand against my hip as I made my way back to Lucas's room. The volume of Plato was sitting on the bench where I'd left it when Angie came to take me to breakfast. I picked up the book and stood at the door, hand resting on it at chest-height, then pushed it open.

Lucas was leaning against the bed, his back to me. He was easing a hospital pajama shirt over his shoulders, and his hair stuck out in all directions as his head emerged from the collar. He moved slowly, as if he were tired and in pain.

"My parents are gone already," he said, before I had a chance to speak. "They spoke well of you."

"I'd hope so," I said. "I stopped their moron son from killing himself."

"Christopher, please don't – "

"Too late," I said. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He turned then, eyes big and dark in his face. "What was I thinking? Isn't that pretty obvious?"

"No, it's not!" I shouted. He glanced nervously at the door and I lowered my tone. "It's not obvious what you were thinking because nobody in their right mind – who does that? Did you even know what would happen? Did you think about it at all?"

"Every waking moment," he hissed.

"Oh, so you thought about how I'd feel?"

"This wasn't about you!"

"You made it about me! You made me your secret-keeper. We were friends. I care about you. And even if it wasn't about me did you consider the possibility that the boy might be the one to find you? Because he did find you. He dragged me out to The Pines. He called the helicopter to come get you. Right now he's probably back in Low Ferry wondering if you're alive or dead."

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he murmured.

"Guess what? It did anyway. And it's your fault," I snarled. "I don't really care right now what you meant to happen, Lucas."

He hung his head, hands folded across his thighs. I could practically see Nameless, see the drooping tail and flattened ears.

"Are you going to try this again?" I asked. He shrugged. "Bullshit, Lucas. I'm done playing games with you."

"No," he whispered. Which, frankly, surprised me into silence for a while. He took a breath like he was going to speak again, then let it out slowly.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Sore," he replied. "I feel stupid."

"Your parents yell at you?"

He shook his head.

"They should have," I told him.

He looked up at the ceiling. "Probably. They're going to put me in a clinic somewhere."

"For this kind of thing."

"I see you spoke with them too."

"You don't take after them, much."

"Nope. I'm a throwback," he said. "My father's father. Musician. Died in a mental institution. Nobody talks about him. I look like him."

"Well, then it must be fate," I drawled. He glanced sidelong at me. "I'm not done being pissed off at you."

"Sorry I bit your hand," he muttered.

"Good. It hurts."

"Well, I am, okay? What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything, Lucas, I want you to not have tried to kill yourself yesterday. I want to stop trying to explain to the doctors that the dog bite on my hand came from you."

"Nobody forced you to do it. Nobody wanted you to do it," he added.

"Everyone wanted me to do it but you!"

"You took a poll, did you?"

"For fuck's sake, Lucas."

"I can't be a stray dog all my life," he blurted. "And I can't be a man and know how much better people treat their dogs. I can't live in two worlds and it doesn't matter because either way I don't belong. I don't know what to do."

"You seemed pretty sure of that last – "

"Will you punish me and get it over with already? Either shout at me and finish the job or give up on it. You don't want to play games, don't make snide remarks and then pretend you're trying to help me."

I shut my mouth sharply.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Obviously I can't ask for any favors right now. Can't even kill myself properly. I think maybe I belong in a clinic."

"No you don't. You don't think that."

"No, I don't, but where else am I supposed to go? You want me to thank you for saving me? Thank you, Christopher, I looked death in the face and I didn't want to die after all so thank you, and please feel free to shout at me all you want because I'm still alive to hear it. But there isn't really any place for me in this...this stupid life, either. I don't know. Four walls and tranquilizers three times a day isn't the worst thing that could happen to me."

"Yes, so we've proved."

We were silent for a while.

"They'd take your masks away," I said, and he flinched. "They wouldn't let you make any more. Well, whatever you could manage out of paper and safety scissors."

He snorted.

"Glue sticks if you're really lucky."

"Christopher, that's not nice."

"Of course you'd have to give them to the therapist and he'd tell you what your deep down inner feelings are – "

"Stop it!" he said, around something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

"Lucas, you used the black crayon again! What have I told you about using the black crayon?" I said in a stern voice, and he covered his face with his hands and whimpered with laughter. After a few seconds he bumped his shoulder against mine, then leaned harder, letting me take some of his weight.

"What am I going to do with you?" I asked, when the laughter subsided.

"It's more what I'm going to do with myself."

"Lucas, you – "

"No!" he said, looking up at me, distressed. "I didn't mean – just – I don't know where to go, Christopher. I don't know how to fix it."

"Well, we're going to have to break you out of this joint anyway, huh? Not doing you any good sulking here," I said.

"I don't suppose you brought the mask," he said sheepishly.

"I had other things on my mind at the time," I remarked. "Besides, I didn't see it. I thought you might've destroyed it."

"I couldn't do that," he said. "It'd be like drowning a pet."

I lifted an eyebrow at him. He sighed.

"You can just sign yourself out, you know," I said. "You don't have to wait for your parents to decide what they're going to do with you."

"Well," Lucas said doubtfully. "It's just...I don't know where my pants are, for one thing."

I was trying to think of a way to reply to that when there was a soft knock on the door, and Marjorie looked in.

"Good morning, Christopher," she said, as calm and collected as if she were greeting a patron in a shop. "And you must be Lucas."

Lucas glanced at me, anxious, confused.

"Lucas, this is Marjorie, she's an old friend – helped me buy your book for you. Marjorie, this is Lucas."

He offered his hand silently, and she took it. Marjorie has a firm handshake – I could see him wince a little.

"I didn't know how long you boys were likely to hang around this edifice of disease and death, but I thought I'd see how you were," she said. "See if you wanted anything other than Plato. From what Christopher's told me, you have a unique taste in literature, Lucas."

"Not really," Lucas mumbled. "I was working on a project. I like history," he said awkwardly.

"Do you?" she asked, amused. "And are you planning to become part of it?"

This brought a small smile to his lips.

"Not just yet," he said softly.

"Good," she said. "How long are they planning to keep you here, anyway? I'd like to see Christopher around my shop sometime, and he apparently can't be more than ten feet away from you or his head explodes."

Lucas blinked at me.

"Oh," she said knowingly. "He didn't tell you he slept on the bench outside your room last night, did he?"

"Hey," I said, as Lucas's eyes widened. "Just because I'm pissed off at you doesn't mean I don't care or anything."

"It's just...why?" Lucas asked.

"Don't make me slap you in the head," I said.

"Shall I give you some privacy?" Marjorie asked, grinning.

"We could bust you out right now," I said. "Marj has a car. I'll buy you some pants."

"Two things not often said in the same breath," Marjorie observed. Lucas bowed his head and I was reminded of Nameless again. I wondered how long his movements had been so doglike, or if it was just that Nameless himself was a particularly human dog.

"My parents are coming this afternoon," he said finally. "If I'm not here, they might worry."

"Mostly about the bill," I replied. He gave me a wounded look. "Oh, come on, Lucas. I'm not going to tell you that your parents screwed you up, but they certainly didn't help."

"All the best schools," Lucas murmured.

"Yeah, I was there for that conversation too."

"Is this some kind of code?" Marjorie asked, and Lucas and I looked at each other. "Clock's ticking, boys, and my crossword is waiting."

"I still need pants," Lucas said, looking distressed. Marjorie sighed and walked out the door. "Is she leaving – "

"She's going to go talk to the doctor," I said, peering through the half-open door. "She'll find you something."

"Where am I going to go?"

"Back to Low Ferry, with me, if you want. If you want to stay in the city, Marj can find you a place. Please come back with me," I added.

"Why? What good is it going to do?"

"What harm is it going to do? It'll make me happy."

He nodded, and almost smiled again, and that was when Marjorie appeared with a set of green hospital scrubs and the triumphant cry of "Pants!"

It took half an hour for Lucas to finish all the paperwork and sign himself out, looking over his shoulder every minute to see if his parents were coming. Not long after that, we found ourselves in Eighth Rare Books at Marjorie's table, huddled together and systematically destroying a box of fried chicken from the greasy snack shack around the corner. Lucas watched everyone who came near with a wary sort of suspicion, but nobody bothers those chosen souls who sit with Marj as she rules the literary world and thoroughly destroys the Trib crossword.

"Thank you, Marj," I said, around a mouthful of food. "I didn't really pack my wallet for a surprise trip to Chicago."

"My pleasure, Christopher," she said, ruffling my hair. "Do you two need money for the train?"

"I can send you a check."

"Let me buy you a train ticket. You save your money to buy one back to see me a little sooner than sometime-next-year."

"She's very generous," Lucas said in an undertone, as Marj turned to answer a question from a patron.

"She likes me," I replied. "You, she probably thinks you're weird."

"Well, I am," Lucas answered.

"Send her a mask. She'd love that," I told him. "Keep you busy, too."

"I'm not going to try again. I promise," he told me. I watched Marjorie wander off with her patron in search of whatever they wanted – if they even knew. One of the joys of a bookseller's life is knowing what someone wants to read before they do.

When we were finished eating, and during a lull in Marjorie's business day, she counted out more than enough money for two train tickets back to Low Ferry, tucked it into the pocket of a battered backpack, and slung the pack onto my shoulder.

"Books, for you," she said, kissing me on the cheek. "And some biscotti."

I gave her a tight hug while Lucas stood by awkwardly. When we were finished, he offered his hand, leaned in when Marjorie went to hug him, then back when she saw he had been ready to shake. The tips of his ears reddened with embarrassment as he stood very still and allowed her to hug him.

I imagine his parents found out about his disappearance while we were on the train that afternoon, but I've never found out and it would be difficult for me to care less about them than I do. We were quiet on the train, Lucas buried in one of Marj's books, me staring out the window at the landscape rolling past.

At some point, Lucas shifted so that his arm was tucked up against mine, the side of his head tilted onto my shoulder as he slowly turned the pages of the book.

Comments

[alexiel-neesan.livejournal.com]

Intense, and real, and fast - wow, I didn't saw these two chapters passing!

Only other thing I have to say is: I dislike very strongely the kind of parents that Lucas' are. It's almost physical. Poor Lucas.

[polaris-starz.livejournal.com]

Ngk.

I'm really really glad you posted these two chapters at the same time. Lucas is way more of a fucked up puppy than I'd realized. I'm not really coherent enough to comment on stylistic things, I'm afraid. But I would like to say that Marjorie is awesome. ♥

[grey-bard.livejournal.com]

Wait, what? How is this the second to last chapter? It feels like the first half of a novel...

Oh well. That's just my personal first impression upon finding out. I like it very much, but it feels abbreviated.

[concretesphinx.livejournal.com]

Agreed. I feel like there's enough legit filler of the town to make this twice as long even without changing the plot.

[skoosan.livejournal.com]

I'm going to do a final commenting when 13 comes out. I need time to process.

[starlady38.livejournal.com]

Great dialogue. Oh, Christopher.

[sanura.livejournal.com]

So, I was reminded the most in this chapter of your Sirius, and not just because "secret-keeper" looks magical even uncapitalized.

[drgaellon]

Do recall the original headnotes... this was prompted by Ellis Graveworthy's Animagus Winter in Cartographer's Craft. I suspect it's SUPPOSED to feel like that.

[clodia-risa.livejournal.com]

It felt accurate. The whole thing. Especially tat shrug that Lucas did - I've used those when I've felt bad about something i've done but don't want to say anything too many times.

I wish there were more. I know we've got one more chapter - but I enjoy low Ferry and all the characters - are you thinking about beefing it up from a novella to closer to a novel?

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

Well, it's eighty thou as is, which is pretty close to standard novel-length.

But, uh. *sheepish look* See, there's this other book I never finished, about a town that could well be neighbour to Low Ferry, and a third about Chicago as a place of magical reality. I might write some kind of trilogy.

[anitaray.livejournal.com]

Oh, Sam. I've got tears in my eyes. It wasn't just that this chapter felt like you wrote it for me - I can't begin to tell you how much of it is very personally significant. It was also just masterfully written. Perfect.

[anitaray.livejournal.com]

acidic coffee

Does not exist. Coffee can *cause* acidity, and perhaps be acrid?

"Oh, I wanted to...uh, in case he woke up. Is he?"

"Did he?"

We figured you'd gotten someone pregnant and were trying to avoid them or something."

What's wrong with just saying "her"? You don't need gender neutral pronouns for a hypothetical someone who might be *pregnant*.

systematically destroying a box of fried chicken ...
(and two lines later)
... thoroughly destroys the Trib crossword.

Destroy the duplicates.

Still full of utter love for this chapter, your best yet in Nameless. These caught my eye while I was rereading.

[christophem.livejournal.com]

Aww, I feel so horrible for Lucas! He's thinking very much like a dog--that trapped feeling, where he isn't capable of seeing any options. I am not ready for this to be over. I agree that it really doesn't sound like second-to-last chapter. Short! But I would totally buy a hard copy.

[salviag.livejournal.com]

I haven't commented on the last few chapters--more because you seem to have hit your stride, and I am still thinking about them. These two were beautiful; I'm not ready for there to be just one chapter left.

[cellophane_ria.livejournal.com]

Aw, I wanted to whine at you some more about what I whined before, which is Christopher's past catching up with him (I still think it's a bit anticlimactic), but I'm too moved by that two last chapters.

I'll be back later, hopefully more coherent.

Also, it feels like the shortest novel ever, which I suppose is a compliment of sorts:)

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

As a novel it's definitely short, shorter than most of my longfics even -- 82,000 words in this incarnation, 60,000 in previous. But I'm glad it seems short, too. :)

[lusse-kun.livejournal.com]

♥

[air-ocean.livejournal.com]

Oh Sam. That was...unexpected somewhat. And awful, and then beautiful. And very intense. These two chapters in particular make me believe you as a writer so much it hurts. Wonderful!

[air-ocean.livejournal.com]

Also, when in the teaser you said "Christopher meets his parents", I actually thought that meant Christopher's parents, and was indignant: what, does Christopher die AGAIN? Happy to see that isn't the case:)

[swordage]

PANTS!

That ending image is so quietly wonderful, I am going to carry it with me for the rest of today.

[only-sound.livejournal.com]

You make me happy.

[velvetaj.livejournal.com]

Something has been bothering me about Lucas, and I'm not sure if I just missed something critical along the way. He hides from people when they come in the store, but when he does have a conversation with people he is perfectly articulate. He keeps saying he doesn't know what to say to people, but he says that to the one person he is most comfortable with, so it doesn't show him being socially awkward. We've never seen anyone being cruel to him so I found his comment about dogs being treated better than people odd, since nobody in Low Ferry had been anything but kind to him. In fact, te only people who were remotely cold to him were his parents, and we didn't see that interaction.

He did manage to develop relationships with other people - the boy, the Friendly, the pastor guy who made him the fire-whatsit at the halloween event. He just isn't coming across as anywhere near as incapable of human interaction as he says he is, making his motivations feel very inauthentic. I want to like him - I do like him - but he's not feeling very real for me. Perhaps building in some scenes that show him interacting poorly with other people - sprinkled throughout, would help.

[supergreak.livejournal.com]

I can explain this, because I'm a lot like Lucas. It's really, really hard for me to interact on a personal level with people I don't know, and sometimes even those I know. But when I decide to have a conversation, I'm good at it. Job interviewers, customers, relatives, they all see the articulate, charming side of me, that isn't shy at all.

I can have a million of those throwaway conversations, and they're fun, because it's acting. When you have to see the same people, and you'll see them again, and you know that they're forming opinions of you, and you start to care what their opinions are...that's when it's hard. It takes a lot of resolve to put on the "mask", and Lucas is just tired to the point that he doesn't want to bother anymore. So Nameless is his easy out, because no one judges a dog. But Christopher and the Boy are worth it, to him.

Hope this helps a little!

[elisi]

Adored these last few chapters.

Loved how the weather reflected Lucas' state of mind, and especially these lines because they speak more eloquently of Christopher's feelings than any blunt declarations could:

I have never felt so at sea – not after my father died, not when I first came to Low Ferry, not during the long malaise that was my life in the city.

If Lucas, who could control the rain and snow, who could grow ice where he walked, who spent his whole life making beautiful things – if Nameless saw the world so darkly that death was preferable...

Mostly I'm just... flailing and unable to formulate any coherent thoughts except that I loved it all, and I wish I could have a hardback copy *now* to hold and carry around with me.

Oh, and apart from making me smile, this

"Lucas, you used the black crayon again! What have I told you about using the black crayon?"

made me think of this. :)

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

ROFL! "Black, black, BLACK!"

[supergreak.livejournal.com]

Wow. That was awesome, dude. I love Marjorie. You'll get no useful response from me.

[ojuzu.livejournal.com]

These two chapters hit me really, really hard. With Nameless I went through the usual (for me) stages of reading a really fantastic book: read a chapter or so, take a break, read a bit more, go do something else for a while, READ THE ENTIRE REST OF THE BOOK IN ONE GO AND CRY "NOOOOOOOO!" AT THE END BECAUSE THERE IS NO MORE.

If you couldn't tell, I'm at that last stage right now. :D

[hidden-gems.livejournal.com]

Right, I'm so glad I took the time to read this before going to bed because I'm not sure my dreams would have been very pleasant otherwise.

Oh how can there only be one chapter left??

[unicornvamp3z.livejournal.com]

At some point, Lucas shifted so that his arm was tucked up against mine, the side of his head tilted onto my shoulder as he slowly turned the pages of the book.

Awwwwwww ♥

[polkadot-magic.livejournal.com]

I know everyone has been saying this, but it's so hard to believe there is but one chapter left! It seems so short! These last two chapters were incredibly brilliant, and continue to show more of both Lucas and Christopher. I'm so invested in their fictional lives! I look forward to the end of another original work by Sam!

[pocky_slash.livejournal.com]

Okay. I feel kind of bad because I've been trying to be constructive and point out problems as I read, but I have been so pulled into the damn thing these last few chapters, I haven't had much to say, constructive wise, and these past two chapters... I kind of sped through them because, my god, Lucas. He is just so, so stupid. I want to smack him. And also hug him. Even though I would probably terrify him.

The whole bit with the boy and Christopher running up to Lucas' place... the pacing was amazing. Amazing job, by the way, with the hemlock. You introduced it back at the beginning and I didn't even think twice about it until that scene. That's something that I always seem to struggle with in my own writing, so I'm incredibly jealous XD

I loved Christopher's mounting panic, the way he transitioned from sternly telling the boy what to do to screaming at him. I totally felt for him ♥

As for this chapter, the conversation with Lucas' parents just broke my heart over and over again. I have completely fallen for Lucas, in case that's not blindingly obvious. Put in a clinc somewhere my ass, you jerks...

The conversation between Lucas and Christopher was just perfect. The way they both stumble through it, making missteps, and Marjorie at the end! Bringing Lucas pants! And bringing them to the bookshop! And buying them dinner! And giving them books! And putting them on a train! Oh, my heart.

Um, what else? I'm not sure if you intend to address Christopher's heart problems in the next chapter, but it seems a little odd that after all of those tests, the doctors don't tell him anything and just let him go.

I am going to miss reading this every day, really. I've completely fallen for these guys and this whole little universe. Thanks for sharing, Sam!

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

*grins* That's the Ibsen Rule: don't show the rifle in act one unless someone fires it by act three. :D

To be honest, Lucas probably should have been given psychiatric care and heavy anti-anxiety meds. But...so many artists I know put up with their mental instability because it lets them make their art, and while I'm all for medication as needed I don't personally care for it.

[allectofromlj]

The only thing I'd note is that Christopher hung up the phone before telling Marjorie what hospital he was at...

Other than that, I have to say I've been enthralled with this story. Thank you for sharing with us!

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

*grins* Marjorie's got SOURCES!

Good point -- I don't want to drop a name of a hospital, because while it is Chicago that's a lot of naming going on. But I will add in something to address this.

[alarivana.livejournal.com]

I was enjoying this book. It was good, if a little rough around the edges, and I'm pretty sure a lot of that roughness would dissolve if it were paper in my hands. And then I read this chapter. And then I fell in love with your book. I can't really explain why, and I'm sorry for that. In a couple days, I might be better able to analyze.

For now, I just want to say it's wonderful. A few years ago, it would probably have changed my life.

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

I'm glad to hear it! :) That's the kind of thing a writer loves to hear.