by Loren Walker
* * *
Sweating and cursing, Renzo managed to swing his legs over the edge of his bed. His left foot touched the ground. It was unnerving to not feel the cold ripple up his right leg, too. But he was sick of the scratchy sheets and the constant smell of bleach.
As Renzo eased his body into the adjacent wheelchair, Cohen gripped the handles, holding it steady. Phaira waited by the door, out of uniform and in street wear, a hood pulled over her head, looking like her old, sullen self.
The day was overcast: a good thing, as direct sun would have been too intense for his first venture outside. Not that there was much to see. Though the medical center was new and gleaming, the neighborhood was still a wreck. Abandoned warehouses spread in all directions, with sporadic stores and stalls crumbling in-between. Rusty trolleys and Subito landbikes rumbled by. Renzo hated this part of town, but he understood that Cohen and Phaira wanted him to experience some normality. At some point, he had to return to the real world and figure out the rest of his life.
As they walked, there was some kind of activity at the end of the street. Renzo craned his neck to see, trying to ignore the warning throb in his temples. A crowd gathered around the doors of a local diner.
Suddenly, the masses erupted with shrill screams, mostly girls. Looking, Cohen tilted the chair to the side. Renzo grabbed the armrests. “Hey!”
“Sorry,” Cohen said sheepishly. “Wonder what’s going on over there.”
Phaira kicked her foot against the concrete. “Does it matter?”
“Let’s go see!” Cohen said brightly, throwing Phaira a sharp look.
Anything other than hospital talk, Renzo thought as they approached the chaos.
There was a break in the crowd. Renzo caught a glimpse of a man’s profile: young, handsome, short black hair, bright white teeth. Familiar.
Familiar?
“Oh, it’s just that Macatia kid,” Cohen noted, disappointed. “Forget it.” He nudged Phaira in the side. “You’re a girl, why don’t you go faint over him with the rest?”
“No thanks,” Phaira said sourly. “I don’t see the appeal.”
“You know why,” Cohen scoffed. “Money, money. Everyone loves you when - ”
“Closer,” Renzo interrupted. “Take me closer.” He stared hard at the crowd, searching for that profile again. That face. That sneer in-between the smiles.
Nican Macatia. Everyone knew him. From one of the wealthiest families in the North, Nican was the only son and heir apparent to the M-Water purification tablet company. Handsome, infamous, sought after, swooned over. A local prince.
A sleek ground rover hovered outside the diner, waiting for its master. Nican took his time through the crowd of admirers, accompanied by two beautiful girls and flanked by three bodyguards. Renzo barely noticed the entourage as Cohen pushed the wheelchair to the edge of the crowd.
“That’s close enough,” Phaira said, looking uneasy.
“No,” Renzo shot back. “Closer.”
They all drew nearer, trying to avoid the wailing girls and their calamity.
Then Nican Macatia emerged before them, flashing a smile at someone over his shoulder.
Renzo pushed off with his good foot and threw all his body weight at Nican.
A cacophony of screams. Nican’s fist slammed into the side of Renzo’s head, but he wouldn’t let go, and he didn’t feel any pain, only Nican’s rippling throat between his thumbs.
An arm looped around Renzo’s neck and pulled, cutting off his air. Nican slipped from his grip, disappearing into the crowd. Renzo clawed at the burly limb, trying to get any bit of air into his lungs.
Then the pressure slid away, and Renzo fell backwards. Cohen’s thick arms caught him and swiftly pulled him away from the crowd. Blinking through the black spots, Renzo saw his sister in a whirlwind, slamming the heel of her palm into Nican’s bodyguard’s nose and breaking it with an audible crack, ducking under a wild swing from the bleeding man and driving the heel of her boot into his knee. The bodyguard crumbled, going for his concealed weapon. Phaira already had her Calis out, primed and aimed, first at the bodyguard’s face, then at the crowd of shrieking onlookers. Nican was stumbling into his transport, the escorts left on the street as it sped away.
Then the three of them were running down an alleyway, Renzo doing his best to keep his balance while holding onto Cohen and Phaira’s shoulders.
Finally, after several twists and turns, they stopped to rest. Renzo panted, hot with humiliation: for his useless stump, for the brief moment he’d locked onto Nican and lost him. He pushed off Cohen’s arm and grabbed a lamppost for balance. His joints screamed at the sudden movement, but his brain was busy gathering the new memory fragments.
That smirk, that smile. The way Nican’s hands gripped a pipe, the laughter, the hands pulling at his papers, at his glasses, crushing them under an expensive heel.
“What was that, Ren?” Phaira demanded.
“That was him,” Renzo said under his breath, more to himself than to his siblings. “He’s the one.”
“You’re kidding,” Cohen exclaimed, his eyes wide. “Macatia?”
Was it him?
“Take me back to the hospital,” Renzo muttered. “Please take me back.”
Holding onto the lamppost, he urged the same images to repeat, to affix them in his broken brain: Nican’s laughing face, the crunch of metal on bone, the taste of pavement and coppery blood.
II.
No officers waited at the hospital to arrest Phaira. Instead, Renzo was the one who called the local patrol to make a statement. He told the two officers every detail that he could recall, answering yes every time as they repeated the question: “Nican Macatia? You know who he is, right?”
His mind cleared, with thoughts of justice being done. The daily rehabilitation became a routine. His arms and shoulders grew stronger. The ringing in his head lessened. He still suffered some phantom pain in his missing limb, but with his right thigh and knee now shaped, a doctor came to measure and fit him for a prosthetic.
“You’ll be back on your feet in no time at all,” the doctor smiled.
Feet. Plural.
There were no visitors. Phaira was in the midst of her service check-in, and working on a request for more leave time. Cohen went back to work at the quarry. He offered to quit and care for Renzo. But jobs were scarce for someone with Cohen’s education level, so Renzo insisted that his little brother go back.
Finally, Renzo was cleared for discharge. He was eligible for home visits from a nurse of his choosing. Renzo declined.
Then the university called him, congratulating him on his release and offering him a position as mathematics department assistant, supporting the instructors and students. Easy work. Decent pay.
He said no.
As Renzo counted down the days to his discharge, he spent hours lost in thought, clicking and unclicking his new prosthesis: a rudimentary, low-cost model. It sent blazes of pain around his thigh when he tried to put weight on it. Normal, they said. It’s an adjustment. Keep practicing. But now it felt strange to be upright. His right leg was now lighter than his left, and his body felt unbalanced, like he might cartwheel and sprawl across the floor.
The morning of his release, a knock sounded at the door. Lying on his bed, Renzo didn’t even look up. “Co, you don’t have to knock.”
“I’m always gonna knock,” Cohen grumbled as he came inside. “It’s called manners.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I wanted to tell you,” Cohen started, and then stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Renzo asked, sitting up.
“Your case is closed,” Cohen confessed. “No charges. No more hours put into the investigation.”
Renzo must have misheard him. “But I told them who did this to me.”
Cohen shrugged. “I don’t know, Ren. When I checked in, that’s what they told me.”
Renzo stared at the floo
r. Of course. What did he expect? Macatia came from money, and everyone had a price. Take this envelope, sweep it away, and it never happened.
Still, it felt like that same old story should be different for Renzo. It was his word, his life. It used to mean something.
“Let’s just go home,” he heard Cohen say, over the roar of his mind. “Let’s just go home.”