“Marcus,” Patricia says, her voice coming tinny and alarmed, and Marcus quickly brings the phone to his ear to calm her down.
“Easy, easy, it’s alright. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Why are you calling?”
“I got — mm, pretty stupid, actually. I guess I got worried. Wanted to make sure you were all holding up.”
“That’s not stupid. It’s, it’s nice of you. We’re pretty — we’re pretty shaken, I mean — it’s okay, though. We’re, um, we’re all downstairs. Watching movies in the background. Not good to be too quiet. We’re all sleeping here tonight.” Marcus nods. That was how he’d left them; the whole family clustered together in the living room with all the blankets and duvets they could find, Adia’s granddad holding onto her and Patricia flitting about, nervous and quick: food for Marcus, water for Adia, bowl for Adia to throw up into, painkillers, bandages, hot tea. Movement, movement, movement. Settling in for a long night with a sick kid, but not — Marcus had gotten lucky, had gotten the demon quick enough — not an emergency room visit. Adia’s nauseous and dizzy and sleep-deprived and there are bruises all over her, but she’s not as physically broken down as some possession victims are after their experience. “Adia’s throat hurts. I’m making her eat soup.”
“She keeping it down?”
“Um, seventy percent of it? I guess?”
Marcus laughs, relieved, and Patricia joins in, a bit sodden. “Good. Better than it was.” He looks to Batman, tries not to choke on the surreality of the situation: gives him an angry, flat look, this what you wanted?
no subject
“Easy, easy, it’s alright. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Why are you calling?”
“I got — mm, pretty stupid, actually. I guess I got worried. Wanted to make sure you were all holding up.”
“That’s not stupid. It’s, it’s nice of you. We’re pretty — we’re pretty shaken, I mean — it’s okay, though. We’re, um, we’re all downstairs. Watching movies in the background. Not good to be too quiet. We’re all sleeping here tonight.” Marcus nods. That was how he’d left them; the whole family clustered together in the living room with all the blankets and duvets they could find, Adia’s granddad holding onto her and Patricia flitting about, nervous and quick: food for Marcus, water for Adia, bowl for Adia to throw up into, painkillers, bandages, hot tea. Movement, movement, movement. Settling in for a long night with a sick kid, but not — Marcus had gotten lucky, had gotten the demon quick enough — not an emergency room visit. Adia’s nauseous and dizzy and sleep-deprived and there are bruises all over her, but she’s not as physically broken down as some possession victims are after their experience. “Adia’s throat hurts. I’m making her eat soup.”
“She keeping it down?”
“Um, seventy percent of it? I guess?”
Marcus laughs, relieved, and Patricia joins in, a bit sodden. “Good. Better than it was.” He looks to Batman, tries not to choke on the surreality of the situation: gives him an angry, flat look, this what you wanted?