Page 9 of Flames and Blood

“Nice day for a bit of bloodplay, huh?” I say. Nobody answers.

The girl works a piece of gum, one soft crack at a time. There’s chipped polish on one nail she hasn’t bothered to fix. The older man stands behind her with a foam case open and tells her how to do it.

“Other side of the crook,” he says.

“This one’s good.”

“You used it Tuesday. It’ll stop being good.” He licks his thumb and peels a label off the sheet. “Rotate or I write it down.”

“You write everything down.”

“That’s the job.”

The alcohol swab is cold going on and colder drying. The needle goes in on the side he wanted. Vial. Cap. Label. He counts them out loud, and when he’s done he counts them again.

“Two,” the girl says. “It’s been two every time since I started.”

“It’s two until somebody tells me it’s three.” He fits them into the foam. The case is cut to hold those two and nothing else. “Courier’s at eleven. If it’s not sealed by half past, it sits here until Thursday, and then I’m the one getting chewed out.”

“They bumped it again?”

“They bump it every time now.”

I turn my head enough to see the case in the mirror. Small glass, sealed caps, a code printed on each label. I can’t read it, and I’ve never seen one like it. I can’t imagine anyone drinking from it.

“Those are awfully small,” I say.

The gum stops.

“Nobody drinks out of a vial that size,” I say. “You’d need a hundred of them and a very patient man.”

Neither of them looks at me. The girl draws the next vial, and the man goes on fitting foam and doesn’t stop once.

“Arm,” he says.

“You’ve got a name?”

“Arm.”

“Suits you.” I draw my elbow back through the hatch. “You’ve done a lot of these.”

“Enough.”

“Ever done one of me before?”

The girl’s gum stops again. He fits the last vial into the foam and shuts the case.

“You came with a schedule,” he says. “Twice a week, two vials, same days. That’s all you need to know.”

He picks up the case and leaves, and the girl gathers the swabs and follows him. There’s a red line across my forearm where the strap sat, and one puncture in the crook. I press my thumb over it and sit back on the cot.

Vials.

The other captives at the last place had full tubes drawn. Mine look like samples.

Over a year, I’ve believed twice a week meant they were taking less blood on purpose. Sparing me.

They weren’t sparing me. Somebody’s doing something with my blood that needs a sample on a schedule.