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“Wait, so I’m the only one who wants to leave?” Kristiana’s lips compress and her hands ball into fists.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You should go. It won’t help her to have everyone here watching.” But it’s my penance for making my sister do this.
“What will you need?” Grigoriy asks. “I can step in and heal the exit wounds from the screws and the wire.”
Alexei nods. “That’s a good idea.”
“And I’ll take them out slowly, backing the screws out so that it doesn’t damage the bone.”
“Can we put her to sleep or something?” I ask.
“I’m afraid not,” Alexei says. “I need to be able to monitor her vitals and how they’re responding, or I can’t deal with any issues.”
“I doubt a hospital would loan us an anesthesiologist anyway,” Mirdza jokes.
“Can’t any of you mind control someone into letting us?” I hate this. I’m the one who pushed for it, and I still hate it.
“I have a feeling this is going to be loud,” Kristiana says. “I’m going to get my dad out of the house by. . .I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
“Good idea,” Aleks says.
The eight minutes it takes for Kristiana to race downstairs and convince her father to leave—and get his shoes and his wallet and his keys—are some of the longest moments of my entire life.
But then, when the front door closes, I almost feel worse.
“Alright.” Alexei nods. “I’m ready.”
Aleksandr pushes past him and sits down on the chair again.
“Wait.” I leap over Mirdza on the bed and lie next to her, holding her hand in mine. “Okay. Now you can do it.”
Everyone’s staring at me.
“What?” I huff. “She needs someone to hold her hand, okay?”
But then, Aleks starts. Mirdza’s entire body goes stiff, and then she bows backward, her shoulders arcing down and her belly flying up. She’s brave, and she’s strong, but she’s screaming louder than anyone I’ve ever heard scream, and it’s the worst ninety seconds of my life. I can’t look away as the top of her leg splits open, chunks of metal and grafted bone sliding out in a spray of crimson.
Only when Aleksandr stops and Grigoriy steps in do I realize that I’m screaming right along with her. But faster than her leg ripped open, it magically, invisibly closes, the skin simply regrowing over the gaping, jagged holes.
There’s blood everywhere. It’s all over Aleksandr. It’s all over the floor. It’s on the bed, and it’s on me. Poor Mirdza’s white as a ghost. But the first step, hopefully the worst step, is done.
Which is why I feel absolutely and utterly ill. Because that’s the part we knew they could do. Now comes the unknown.
Grigoriy presses a kiss to her forehead and backs up.
My heart’s hammering.
My hands, clutching Mirdza’s, are clammy and trembling.
My breathing’s shallow and labored.
Mirdza, on the other hand, looks utterly calm.
“Are you alright?” I whisper.
She nods.
“How can you possibly be alright?”
