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It was my fight-or-flight impulse that didn’t understand, and I struggled to control both of my demons. I nodded, and the doctor moved in with a brief touch of the instrument against my T-shirt as he listened to my heart.

The doc listened, a frown on his face. After a moment, he straightened and removed the earpieces. “I hear some crackles, but they’re not too awful,” he said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I was told you were in the hospital. Jazz? I need to know why.”

I stared at him, my focus slipping.

“Jazz? Jazz?”

I needed to answer, but I couldn’t find the words.

“Soldier! Why?”

“Virus. Coughing. Sir,” I snapped, alert.

The doctor squeezed my shoulder. “Good. What I hear is probably a residual effect of your viral infection. Your lungs are still clearing up. So, I’m going to…”

I went somewhere else when he did his checks, my heart, my lungs, frowning at me, feeling for reflexes, checking my hands—I went to a safe place in my head, before war, before running from Alex, way back to when I was a kid, and my life was Ninja turtles.

Leonardo. Michelangelo. Donatello. Raphael.

“Can you turn for me?”

Splinter. Shredder. April. Bebop. Rocksteady.

“Can I see your hands? Are you okay with me touching you?”

Casey. My favorite. I loved Casey. I wanted to be Casey.

“Okay, we’ll need to bandage these. I have…”

Karai. Krang.

“Jazz? Can you tell me your date of birth?”

I think I told him. I knew I’d be forty soon. I knew I was half done with this life, or maybe more than halfway through. Some nights, I was ready to be done with it altogether.

“… advocate for you. Do you have anyone…”

Leonardo. Michelangelo. Donatello. Raphael.

He helped me put my layers back on with so much kindness I could’ve wept and then patted my shoulder before he stood back.

He scribbled something on a notepad, then glanced up. “I’m going to give you an expectorant to help clear any mucus from your lungs and make breathing easier. Also, some ibuprofen should help with any inflammation and discomfort you might be feeling.” He added those to a small bag.

“I think I have money. I can’t… nothing makes sense… how will I pay for those?—?”—”

“It’s covered,” Doc interrupted. “Now, as for your hand.” His attention shifted to my right hand, which I hadn’t realized looked as bad as it felt until I was staring down at it. “There’s redness and slight swelling around some cuts that haven’t healed properly. How did you do this?”

Shame flooded me, and I shook my head—how could I tell him I’d been searching for food and had been cut by a piece of glass?

“Okay, it’s okay,” he reassured. “This looks like it’s becoming infected. It’s important to keep this clean to avoid any further complications. If you leave, can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” I said with a hacking cough.

He walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a small bottle. “This is an antiseptic wash. Use it twice a day on the affected area and cover it with a clean dressing after each wash,” heinstructed, handing me the bottle. “Keeping the wound clean is crucial to prevent infection from spreading.”

I nodded, taking the bottle from him. The idea of having to take care of a wound properly was daunting, considering the state I’d let myself get into, but the doc wasn’t asking me to try, he was telling me I had no choice.

“Youwilllook after it, soldier.”