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“I thought Langston was the one who blows stuff up?” Lancelot asked.
“That’s a massive oversimplification,” Langston said primly. “I like to build things and then blow them up.”
“You have made a cast before?” Hugo asked.
“No, but I’ve been itchin’ to try,” Langston responded.
“And you’re willing to experiment on your sister?”
“Yup,” Langston said.
“Pretty much,” Oscar added.
“It’s the only kind of human experimentation I’m ethically allowed.” Walt put on disposable gloves with a snap.
Hugo settled an arm protectively around Sylvia’s shoulders. “Perhaps we should go to a hospital.”
Walt ignored him. “We’re going to start with some light sedation. Just a little diazepam.”
“I don’t want to be drugged,” Sylvia said stubbornly.
“Well, I don’t want to do a closed reduction without something to take your mind off the feeling of me moving your bones around.”
There was a beat of silence, then Sylvia said, “If I say anything interesting or poetic while I’m drugged, somebody better write it down.”
“On it,” Oscar said.
Walt prepped the first needle and wiped the inside of her elbow with an alcohol pad. Hugo hugged her close—which looked affectionate but probably had more to do with holding her still. The second before Walt slid the needle into her vein, Sylvia turned her face to Hugo, hiding against his neck. Lancelot watched as Langston and Oscar exchanged a look. He tensed, ready for the brothers to do or say something, but they were quiet.
There was a fuck-off big elephant in this room. While the focus was on treating Sylvia, they were all ignoring it, but Lancelot knew that it wouldn’t take long before her older brothers started asking questions.
They’d told Sylvia the truth about who they were, and what was going on. What were they going to tell the brothers?
Walt withdrew the needle, pressing a small gauze pad to the tiny hole. “You should start to feel the effects in a minute or two.” Walt set aside the first needle and started prepping three more.
“What are those for?” Hugo asked.
Oscar crossed his arms. “Is it question-asking time? Because I have a few things I’d like to ask.” The words were mild, but the tone was aggressive.
Apparently, Oscar couldn’t ignore the elephant any longer.
“No.” Walt’s tone was firm. “We’re not doing this right now. First of all, the priority is taking care of Sylvia. Secondly, I want to be a part of this conversation, and I can’t set bones and question people at the same time.”
When he questioned people, Lancelot was usually breaking bones.
“Oh,” Sylvia said slowly. She lifted her head from Hugo’s neck. “This is nice. I see why people do this recreationally.”
“Don’t get any ideas.” Walt lifted the first of the needles he’d prepped. “Hold her forearm,” he ordered Hugo.
Without questioning, Hugo placed his hand on her arm, just below her elbow. Walt slid the needle into the back of her hand and pressed on the plunger.
Sylvia’s nose wrinkled in apparent discomfort, but the sedative was doing its work. “I’m a poet,” she declared. “That means I’m practically required to have some sort of drug or alcohol problem.”
“Yeah, you try that. I’m gonna tape it when Mama beats your ass,” Langston said.
“But all the other artists get to do it,” Sylvia bitched.
“All the other artists didn’t have a proper Southern mama.”
