41

Marianna

Time is doing that thing again.

Where it stops being a linear concept and becomes more like... Jell-O. Wobbly. Uncertain. You poke it and your finger goes through and you're not sure if you've been standing here for three seconds or three hours.

It's 1 PM. I know this because I check my phone. The cracked screen shows 1:00 PM in sad digital numbers.

Then I check again and it's 2:50 PM.

I don't remember the hour and fifty minutes in between. They're just... gone. Dissolved into that Jell-O void where time goes to die.

I'm in Recovery Suite 2. There's a client on the table—someone from the Dolphins, I think, linebacker, knee issue—and my hands are doing their job. Pressing into the IT band, releasing tension, following the protocol I learned in school and have executed approximately nine hundred times.

The puppet-version of Marianna is very good at her job.

"—feeling okay?"

I blink. The linebacker is looking at me over his shoulder. Concerned. Which is wrong. I'm supposed to be the concerned one. That's literally my job description.

"Sorry," I hear puppet-Marianna say. "What?"

"I asked if you're feeling okay. You've been working the same spot for like... five minutes straight."

Have I?

I look down at my hands. They're still on his IT band. Still applying pressure. The muscle underneath is probably screaming for mercy but puppet-Marianna didn't get the memo.

"My bad." I adjust. Move to a different area. "How's this?"

"Better. Thanks."

We continue in silence. He doesn't ask again.

Smart man.

3:36 PM.

I'm sanitizing equipment in the storage room—wiping down the Theragun, organizing massage oils by viscosity like that matters, like anything matters—when Derek pokes his head in.

"Yo, Marianna. You coming tonight?"

I stare at him.

"Tonight?" I manage.

"The watch party? *Heated Rivalry*? Priya's place?" He's looking at me like I've forgotten how oxygen works. "You said maybe. I'm doing a headcount for snacks."

Oh. Right. The thing. The show about the hockey players who are secretly in love and apparently have a sex scene tonight.

"I don't think—"

"Come on. It'll be fun. You look like you could use some fun." He grins. "Plus Priya makes insane jalapeño poppers. Like, criminally good. You haven't lived until you've had them."

The thought of food makes my stomach do something complicated. Something between a growl and a lurch. A... glurch.

When did I last eat?

I genuinely don't know.

"Maybe," I hear myself say again. The word is apparently the only one left in my vocabulary. "I'll text you."

"Cool. Party starts at nine. Bring wine if you want, but it's not required. Oh, and fair warning—Priya cries at everything. Like, aggressively cries. It's a whole thing."

He disappears back into the hallway. I'm alone with the massage oils and the specific smell of industrial sanitizer and the growing awareness that my body is starting to feel... disconnected.

I finish organizing. Check the time. 4:23 PM.

Close enough.

I don't remember the bus ride back to Duane's building. I must have taken it. Must have walked to the bus stop, swiped my card, sat in a plastic seat that smells like someone else's life choices.

One second I'm at Kinetic. The next I'm standing in front of Duane's building, fishing in my bag for the key card.

The lobby is empty. The elevator is empty. The hallway is empty.

Everything is very, very empty. Including me.

The key card. Right. I need the key card.

I dig through my bag. The key card is at the bottom. I pull it out. It slips through my fingers. Falls to the floor with a sad little *clatter* against expensive marble. I stare at it.

*Just pick it up*, my brain suggests. I bend down. Grab the card. Start to straighten—

The world tilts. I'm falling. My hip hits something hard—the console table, the one with the abstract sculpture that probably costs more than my student loans. My shoulder follows. Then my head—

There's a crack. The sound of skull meeting marble corner.

And then I'm on the floor.

Face-down. Marble cool against my cheek. The key card clutched in my hand like a talisman that failed to protect me.

*Huh*, I think distantly. *That happened.*

The pain comes second. Blooming across my forehead like a flower opening in time-lapse. Hot and bright and increasingly insistent.

I should get up.

I should definitely get up.

When I finally manage to push myself to sitting—elbows shaking, head screaming, the room spinning like I'm on the worst carnival ride ever designed—I don't know how long I've been on the floor.

I touch my forehead.

My hand comes away red.

"Huh," I say out loud. To no one. To the empty apartment. To the blood that's now dripping onto Duane's pristine marble floors. "That's not ideal."

I try to stand. The world tilts again—less violently this time, but enough that I have to grab the console table for support.

The abstract sculpture wobbles. I have a brief, hysterical thought: *If I break this, will Duane kill me before or after I bleed out?*

I steady myself. Wait for the room to stop moving.

It doesn't stop. Just slows to a manageable rotation.

I make it to the bathroom through sheer spite.

There's a gash on my forehead. Right at the hairline. Maybe an inch long. Not deep enough to see skull—silver linings—but deep enough that it's still bleeding. Still dripping down my face in thin red lines that mix with the sweat and the mascara I forgot I was wearing.

I grab a washcloth. Press it against the wound. The white terry cloth turns red immediately.

Fuck.

I need stitches. I know I need stitches. Which means hospital. Which means money. Which means insurance. Which I don't have.

The Kinetic health benefits don't kick in for ninety days. I'm on day twelve. Seventy-eight to go. In the meantime, I'm what the American healthcare system calls "fucked."

An ER visit will cost me... what? Minimum $500 just to walk through the doors? Plus stitches, plus cleaning the wound, plus whatever other charges they decide to tack on because they can?

I have $14 in my checking account.

The math isn't mathing.

I press the washcloth harder against my forehead. The bleeding slows. Doesn't stop, but slows.

Maybe I can just... butterfly bandage it myself? I've seen it done on YouTube. Can't be that hard. Just need some steri-strips and—

The washcloth is soaked through. I grab gauze from the first aid kit under the sink and wrap it around my head like I'm an extra in a war movie.

It's also already turning pink. Seeping through.

I need help. I grab my bag. Shove my wallet inside even though it's useless.

I'm halfway to the door when I hear it.

The elevator.

I turn around.

Duane steps into the apartment.

He's wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt and his hair is slightly messed up like he's been running his hands through it. He looks tired. Irritated. His default state.

"What did you do?"

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

What comes out is: "Can I borrow some money?"

"I need to go to the hospital," I continue, because apparently I'm committed to this nightmare now. "And I don't have insurance. The Kinetic benefits don't start for another seventy-eight days. So I need to borrow—I don't know how much, maybe five hundred? A thousand? I'll pay you back. As soon as I get my first paycheck. I promise. I'm not trying to—I know I'm already living here rent-free and I said I'd leave and I haven't and now I'm asking for more and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm a disaster. I ruin everything. I can't—"

My voice cracks.

"—I can't even stand up without bleeding all over your fucking marble."

I'm crying now. When did I start crying?

Tears are streaming down my face, mixing with the blood, and I'm trying to wipe them away but my hands are shaking and the gauze is falling and everything is falling—

"Fuck," Duane says.