This chapter contains the following trigger warnings:

Injured animal
Light descriptions of gore

Machiavelli placed a cardboard box upside down in front of the couch, a makeshift table for his unexpected and unconscious guest. A few minutes later, Machiavelli pulled together a simple sandwich, placed it on a plate, and put it all on top of the box. Malin did not respond. He hadn’t responded to anything for the past seven hours. Not the application of more ointment, not the bandages over the worst parts, not the detailed act of putting a shirt on him. Machiavelli supposed the nap he suggested had come sooner than expected. And for whatever record, he had checked the man’s breathing and heartbeat. Both were steady, quiet, but there. And for whatever other record, Machiavelli did not let his palm linger on the man’s chest. He did not linger on his feelings of warmth, sorrow, and eminent regret. Angels were watching, he reminded himself, angels. But to which gates they belonged, he did not know.

Malin’s head sagged forward, as if the gauze–already running red in some areas–weighed him down. The movement made Machiavelli stifle a surprised jump. He ran his fingers along his scalp, humming himself back into calmness. The washing machine rumbled downstairs and clawed at the mess of the day. Machiavelli paced the hall. Malin did not move. God, all those earlier words, all the noise of somebody else in the house–not a client, but a guest–made Machiavelli’s stomach ache for more. His mind clambered for that brief tunnel vision of caring for someone, around the memory of the dying bird. He thoughtlessly pressed his hand against Malin’s wrist to feel the pulse. It was still there, somehow. 

A hoarse groan escaped the stranger, his fingers grasping at nothing, when Machiavelli pulled away. The man stood in silence. Malin settled back into place. Machiavelli’s blue-grey hair drifted down onto Malin like a snowdrift over a ditch. He wanted to shake the stranger awake and hear him speak again. But he stepped back instead. Malin’s head moved forward again, and his thin lips pulled back in a frown while his eyebrow furrowed, indicating a bad dream or a moment of pain had come over him. The angle of his mouth showed no teeth when the jaw dragged itself down. Machiavelli reached over Malin’s body. He closed the stranger’s mouth, setting his head upright on the armrest. The expression of pain passed away moments after.

Machiavelli dug through the linen closet and pulled out another throw blanket. Mikhail had left several behind, and his father silently prayed that the boy would not care. He spread it over the top of Malin and tucked it in by his neck. How long ago had he done this same motion? Machiavelli knew the answer, but instead of letting the thought materialize, his feet took him to the side of his bed. It was far too early to sleep. But he stared down at the king sized mattress, his side disheveled from the months of not bothering to lay the blankets back on properly. Bri’s side was still clean as ever. An ashtray laid by the window. A half-dead streetlight illuminated that sliver of the room, and Machiavelli realized he was standing in darkness. His hand reached over to turn on the bedside lamp.

“You’ll kill him,” a voice said, barely a whisper, struggling to overcome the ambient rumbling of the house.

Machiavelli turned the light on. The mirror above the bed reflected his gaunt face back at him.