Page 4 of Snow Blind (The Technicians #14)

L ashonda Temple had graduated medical school at the top of her class. She could easily spot and diagnose patients, sometimes without even touching them; however, touching them was the problem. Dr. Temple, didn't like the part of being a doctor where she touched live people. A cadaver she could deal with, but a person on the table who talked back, asked questions, and often incorrectly self-diagnosed themselves ranked high on her list of "icks". The icks included dicks who thought they knew it all, or in instances when she needed to examine a penis, the dick on the table became an erect prick. In her father's business, the icks came in the form of tricks who got their kicks slinging bricks in the dark back room doing dirty deeds. The icks grew into quick fixes of men with bullet holes or women with cuts and contusions requiring patching up with slick sticks, and new bodies often ended on her table with the aid of a click of the mouse which sent a fax which sent Passion Fruit to work. She wrote prescriptions for the broken souls, placing bandages where she could or offering counsel when they would listen. Few returned to offer friendship, say thank you, or even share a cup of coffee. Patients made her sick. The more she thought about it, the more she became plagued with the "icks", making her walk away from it all. All this also meant she'd earned no friends and lived a lonely existence taking care of the infrequent Technician or injured animals.

An opportunity to work with the woman called Cranberry intrigued her, almost bringing a feeling of excitement to cover over the icky. Today, she’d actually laughed; she didn't remember the last time that had happened. A feeling of almost optimism coursed through her as she walked to the room where the man rested. Yesterday, the mode of operation was to save his life. Today, the assessment would begin to unravel the clues of his life to determine if what she had saved was worthy of her time or a costly mistake.

Helen followed her into the room. The man's eyes were closed. Lashonda pulled the covers up from his feet, noticing the soles. Her lips turned down, and she re-covered his feet, moving up his body, gently attempting to the turn the man to his side. His mass was immovable, prompting her to grip the sheeting on the gurney and pulling him towards her.

"Cranberry," she said, using the codename in the man's presence, "come and hold him steady while I examine his back."

Helen moved quickly, holding the edges of the sheeting. She kept her eyes on the mentor as Passion Fruit looked at the man's back. Bryan. He’d told Passion Fruit his name was Bryan.

She asked her mentor, "What are you looking for on Mr. Bryan?"

"This," Passion Fruit said, pointing to the patch of skin. The dark, grayish brown patch of skin looked like a tattoo of the start of a reticulated python coming through the skin on his body. "Along with the thick soles of his feet and this reticulated hyperpigmentation, he has a genetic disorder called NFJS, or Naegeli-Franceschetti-Jadassohn syndrome, an ectodermal disorder, which has resulted in the loss of his fingerprints. You can slowly lower him to his back."

Helen again did as she was told. "Man, I was hoping when he woke up, he'd have a cool story or maybe he was a spy or some shit. I would have possibly settled for him having asshole brothers who threw something hot which he caught, and it burned his fingers."

Cranberry stood beside the gurney looking down at the face. He may have been handsome if his face hadn't been peeled back like an orange rind then stapled to the front of his head. A once aristocratic nose, now reduced to scarred up mangled flesh, would never look the same. The idea of having no fingerprints could mean a life of starting over, anew, away from whatever demons had brought him to this end.

"She is right," Bryan said, startling Helen.

His eyes opened to reveal green irises looking back at her. Helen moved closer to the bed; she touched his hand, placing it within her own. A soft smile formed at the corners of her lips.

"This must be scary for you," she told him.

"Understatement," he said, swallowing hard. "I want to sit up, but I hurt all over. I was shot?"

"Yes," Passion Fruit said. "We covered that already. There is a bullet hole in your shoulder. You fell over a cliff, tore off half your face. You also broke your leg and have internal injuries. The real question is who wants you dead?"

Helen didn't like the in-your-face approach to Bryan. Such tactics would make the man clam up and tell them nothing. She wasn't authorized to play good cop, bad cop, but Passion Fruit had a bit too much passion for her liking. Helen took a chance.

"An even better question is who would be wondering if you're still alive, Bryan? If those people are looking for you to take you out, and there is no physical body to be found, the next steps will be to connect with those in your primary circle," she said. "I would hate for your girlfriend, Mom, or siblings to be in danger because of some shady shit you're into. Sir, are you into some shady shit?"

"Why, are you worried that it will come to your door?" he asked, feeling suddenly unsafe with these two. The one who seemed to have the medical knowledge was overtly bitter and bitchy. The other one, who held his hand while looking him in the eye asking poignant, thought-provoking questions, he found to be unsettling, which also felt... scary.

Helen smiled at him. "Anything that comes to this door will rue crossing the threshold," she replied. "You get some rest. There is a long journey ahead of you in this recovery. Healing is the priority, or at least staying alive, if that's what you want. If you don't want that, let me know."

His eyes grew wide. "I hit my head when I broke my face. I'm not sure I understand what you're saying," Bryan answered.

"You understand me just fine, Mr. Bryan. I've learned that surviving may not always be the best course of action. Death can sometimes be a reprieve from the pain of living, having to continue, having to heal, or forgiving. If we don't learn to forgive, the anger eats us, makes us bitter," she told him. "Your choice. Live and fight another day or say the word and sleep in peace for an eternity."

"You're scary," he whispered, the pain coming at him at a ferocious pace. "Pain. Pain."

"Greet it, allow it to feed your recovery," Passion Fruit told him. "I will give you antibiotics, but no pain meds. This will be difficult, but you're either going to embrace the man you were or walk tall as the man you need to become."

"Bitch," he said under his breath.

Helen was taken aback by the sudden change in his tone. She was also amazed at the cheek of the man who lay flat on his back at Passion Fruit's mercy. Perhaps this is why she chose not to coddle him. Helen expected anger from Passion Fruit at the words the man used, but there was none. Passion Fruit spoke to him in a calm tone.

"This bitch could push this gurney into the back of my van, then roll your ass out to your campsite and let them have at you," Passion Fruit said. "I took a chance thinking there was a man inside of you worth of a second chance to get it right. Do you wish to get it right, or do you want to go back to being the person who earned that bullet?"

Bryan closed his eyes. "I was wrong, you're scarier," he mumbled. "There are good people in the world who get killed. People who are trying to do the right thing on the wrong day also get bullet holes. I'm more man than you think. However, cruelty in any form is not cute."

"You think I'm being cruel?" Passion Fruit asked.

"The pain is a reminder of me being dumb. Failure to help me manage it is you being cruel," he said, sighing deeply. He was done talking to either of them for now. The stinging, followed by a deep throb, radiated up his leg. Concentration and deep breathing would be required to get through the healing without pain medication. Antibiotics would be welcomed. The company of the women would not.

Silently, they left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He was also alone with the pain. It was then, in a new solitude that he began to cry. The tears came as a cleansing agent, washing away the idea of having to get back out there and fight alone. Two scary women had him locked away from those who wished him harm.

At least these two would help him heal. He was safer here with them than out there taking a chance and being the crosshairs of whoever tried to make him dead. Deep in his heart, he knew who it was, but he would deal with each day as it came. Today, he was faced with a new opponent: pain.

"This is going to hurt a lot," he said, sobbing into the pillow.

****

I N THE LIVING ROOM , Helen stood in the middle of the floor. The home was drab and needed some color. Hell, Passion Fruit needed some color. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders with no bounce to it. The colors of the clothing she wore were also drab and gave no clue who she was or how she lived. She honestly looked as if she said, “Fuck it” in 2016 to the Personality Fairy and never went back to claim an optimist trait.

"No pain meds are kind of harsh," Helen said.

"Not knowing who he is when he is on his feet is one thing; having him high and not knowing who he is when he is on his feet is another," Passion Fruit said. "I don't know enough of his medical history or his mental state to give him a narcotic. It could go horribly wrong."

"You can give him at least some acetaminophen," Helen said.

"I will, but not on an empty stomach," she replied. "The fall didn't evacuate his bowels if you noticed when you took off his pants. He may be empty. I have to start with a cup of broth this morning and in the afternoon, some mashed potatoes."

"What do you mean when he is on his feet?"

Passion Fruit wasn't a large woman. On a good day, if she was carrying two bricks in her pocket, she may have weighed a good hundred and twenty pounds. However, Helen had learned to not underestimate people.

"Helen, how much do you weigh, a buck twenty?"

"Somewhere around there," Helen said.

"Face me," Lashonda said, watching Helen turn. She tucked her tongue under, pressing it to the bottom row of teeth and whistled. Before Helen had a chance to react, Candy, the Cane Corso, ran at Helen and dove into her, knocking her to the ground.

The weight of the dog, in the position she landed, pressed Helen to the floor. Lashonda watched her struggle to get up from under the 99-pound dog, and Helen was losing. Candy pressed her body into Helen, becoming dead weight, pinning her to the floor.

"Good Girl," Lashonda said, giving two whistles, and Candy moved off Helen.

Slowly, she got to her feet, scowling at Lashonda. "You could have warned me."

"Candy weighs almost a hundred pounds. Bryan is twice that," she said. "When you look at your weight in comparison to his, you will need double the speed to counter his mass, to equal his energy. Basically, an Einsteinian approach to taking down a son of a bitch. You have to hit fast and quick to take down someone twice your size. E is the equivalent of energy equaling mass times the doubled speed of light."

Helen stared at her mutherfuckingly. Last month, Lemon had her learning chemistry, and now this heffah wanted her to do math.

"You are using Einstein's E equals MC squared to explain your big ass dog assaulting me?"

"No, I am using math to explain that as a woman who weighs a buck twenty, you have to learn to use your weight as an asset and not as a hindrance." She explained it calmly, as if Helen were the second dumbest person on the planet. "If he were to come at us, it would take me, you, and Candy to take him down if he were high and had no fear. Plus, if who shot him comes to the door, he needs to be sober as a parson."

"Where the hell would you find a fucking parson, Lashonda? Are you one of those people who likes to play with words to fuck with people's heads? You could have simply said, sober as a nun, but nah, you have to go with a freaking parson," Helen said, feeling irritated. Scowling, she asked, "So what's the plan? For my training?"

"You have to learn the high-end calculations of math to stage accidents," she replied. "The mass of the target and the speed of fall, which computes with the amount of energy required to end a life. In the interim, you need to learn to fight."

"I can take down a full-grown man," Helen boasted, sticking out her chest.

"Yes, but what will you do when he gets up and comes at you head on? I saw you use the knives; cute, but I'm going to teach you how to use those hands with your pretty painted nails to throw a blow and knock the wind out of a man," Lashonda said.

“You? How...” was all Helen remembered asking when she woke up on the couch, and an hour had passed.

She didn't remember seeing Passion Fruit’s fist come to her face. She knew it had to be her face because Helen's jaw hurt. It hurt badly.

"Did you hit me in my freaking face?" Helen asked, sitting up, but had to lie back down because of the headache.

"I hit you in the jaw, knocking you the hell out," Lashonda said, coming into the living room holding a tray.

"And why in the hell did you do that?"

"To teach you size doesn't always seem like a threat if you know the math," she said, setting down the tray. You can hit someone in the solar plexus to stun them temporarily or hit their jaw, like I did to knock you out. A blow to the temple will jar the brain, also causing unconsciousness and can be dangerous. These things you will learn this week."

"Oh goodie," Helen replied facetiously.

"Whatever," Lashonda added. "I need you. We have to remove Bryan's catheter, get him on his feet, and in one of these chairs."

"Who is we, little woman? I don't want to see that man's wiener, and I sure as hell don't want to see you remove the catheter."

"He needs to be on his feet," Lashonda remarked, "so let's move."

"I don't think I like you, Penis Whisperer," Helen mumbled under her breath. Slowly, she got to her feet, walking into the room where Bryan lay awake looking at them both. The gauze wrapped around his face gave him the appearance of an unemployed mummy extra.

Helen could tell he was in pain, and she felt for him.

Passion Fruit spoke, "I need to remove the catheter, get you on your feet, and get some broth into your belly. If you can hold down the broth, I will give you a couple of acetaminophen tablets to help a bit. Then this afternoon you can have some mashed potatoes."

"Okay," he said softly, feeling defeated. Helen stared into his eyes as Lashonda gloved up, pulled back the covers, and took him into her hand. She removed the catheter holding the bag of yellow body waste up to the light.

"There is only a little pink in it today, but you do have internal injuries, so we need to move slowly, Bryan," Lashonda stated.

She stuck his penis back into his underpants as if it were a thing she did each time she had completed her daily usage of the tool. He didn’t react to her touching him. The pain may have prevented him from thinking of anything sexual.

"The bathroom you will use is the one off the kitchen next to my office. It is wider and will accommodate this walker," she said, pushing it to him. "I will need to go and get you some clothes but first, we need to get you on your feet."

Bryan said little as he attempted to swing the cast to the floor. Helen moved to help him on the mischance he would fall, but Passion Fruit held her hand out to stop her. They watched him struggle, the pain-riddled body moving as best he could. Finally, he was on his feet and leaning into the walker. His arms shook from the strain.

"We're going to the chair in the living room," Passion Fruit said, grabbing the sheeting from the bed and wrapping it around his waist. She held one end; the other she gave to Helen.

He moved slowly, going from the room where he'd been resting to the living room and the chair. Sitting down made him wince. Passion Fruit moved the table over so he could rest the casted foot. His eye held shimmers of tears, and she passed him a cup of hot broth.

"Now we can begin," Passion Fruit told him.

Helen wasn't sure what they were beginning, and neither was Bryan. The hot broth seemed to make him feel better about his lot in life. Passion Fruit was watching her.

"Cranberry, I need you to go into town to get him some clothes, shoes, and items for this cold weather," Passion Fruit said. "Do you have any cash?"

"I do."

"Good; use that. Not a lot of things; he has a cast so the pants will need to be cut to fit over it, so keep it reasonable," Passion Fruit told her.

"On it," Helen said, rising to get her purse. She wasn’t sure why she had to use her money, and knowing she wouldn’t get reimbursed, because, hell, no one knew Passion Fruit had this man in her home. She didn’t argue. Helen was happy to be out of the house for a while.