Bodies Are Disgusting Read Online Free Page B

It's an expression you are well familiar with, but not
one that you can truthfully claim to be fond of. "Well, other than
you almost dying, we've got a nightmare client, the stock market's
down, Wal-Mart stopped carrying my father's shaving cream, and we
nearly lost California to a tsunami caused by a massive earthquake
somewhere in the Pacific."
    "Wow, and here we've been thinking we'd lose
it to the San Andreas fault." It isn't that funny, but Amanda
snickers anyway. Even now, she still laughs at your crappy jokes,
and that still makes your heart flutter.
    Suddenly, you remember the ring in your
pocket. Half of your brain remembers Simon packing it in a Ziploc
bag with your replacement facial jewelry, and the rest of it
remembers a strange cat-shark-boy plucking it from the aether.
Before you realize what's happening, your hand is already digging
in your pocket and pulling it out. "Hey, this is probably a little
random, but I thought you might like this," you say as you hold the
band out to her.
    She quirks one eyebrow, but the sour-lemon
expression doesn't return. "Not to sound catty here, Doug, but...
what?"
    "I found it somewhere, and it's way too small
for me–" which, you realize as the words leave your mouth, is the
truth–"and I thought you might like it." At her skeptical look, you
roll your eyes. "It's not a trap, Admiral Ackbar. I don't have a
use for it, and I thought maybe you might."
    After staring at the proffered ring for a few
moments, Amanda heaves a sigh and plucks it from between your
fingers. That simple action fills you with a monumental sense of
relief that flows from your empty hand down to your toes. Amanda
pockets the ring like you had done at the hospital, and you let
your arm fall to your side. Whether you'd been hallucinating Ori or
dreaming him or simply just been delusional, that duty is now
discharged.
    "Are you done with that?" Amanda asks,
inclining her head toward your half-eaten meal.
    "Oh! Uh, yeah. At least for now. I think I
maybe do need to sleep off the rest of that pain pill and
not take another one." You push your glasses aside with your hand
to rub at your eyes.
    You can hear the way Amanda smiles when she
responds, and you feel somewhat accomplished that the awkwardness
appears to have fled your conversation. "All right. I'll put these
up for you for when you wake up again, and I'll put a note on the
fridge so Simon will know not to feed you any more
painkillers."
    * * *
    The next few days pass in a tedious blur of
phone calls, insurance claims, and paperwork. You refrain from
taking another pain pill, even though your chest aches like it had
been used as a percussion instrument and your joints feel like
they've been filled with shards of coral. At night, you dream about
endless reams of paper upon which you're forced to scrawl your
signature with one clawed hand. You think it's fitting.
    Your insurance company approves a rental car
for a few weeks, but your follow-up appointments with the
neurologist and your general practitioner both bar you from
returning to work, and the neurologist only clears you to drive
during daylight hours. That doesn't particularly upset you. You
need to find a new vehicle to replace the Jarethmobile, and trying
to function is difficult when you aren't assisted by codeine. You
aren't sure you could fulfill your duties at the newspaper anyway.
Shifting hundreds of pounds of newsprint a night is not something
you think your ribs would take kindly to, and you're fairly certain
you shouldn't be operating heavy machinery besides.
    After the first week, you've nearly forgotten
about the strange boy in the hospital.
    On the sixth night after being discharged, you
break down and take another co-codamol tablet.
    You do not dream of endlessly signing your
life away.
    * * *
    There is someone next to you in your bed. You
do not need to open your eyes to know this, because you can hear
them tittering, high and light, near your ear. It takes little
effort to twist