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“Not yet. It’s not even six a.m. I always go in early. I have time.”
“Yeah, me too,” I muttered.
My journey was over. I had nothing but time.
Marit had a tiny car that I had to fold myself in half just to sit in, and she drove like a maniac. Or at least it felt like it to my aching face. We drove in silence, though I could practically feel the curiosity radiating off her.
Finally, she said, “You know, when I asked your name, I had the silly hope you’d say it was Matt Murdock.”
“Who?”
She laughed sheepishly. “Matt Murdock is the name of Daredevil. From the comic book?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Oh, it’s an awesome story. He’s blind, like you, but he fights crime in New York City.”
“How does he fight crime if he’s blind?”
“The radioactive chemicals that took his sight gave him super-enhanced senses.”
“Lucky him.”
“So, when I saw you sitting there, blind and all beat up, like after a tangle with the bad guys, my imagination immediately went to Daredevil.” She coughed. “Silly, I know. I just really love comic books. I’m a geek, as you Americans would say.”
“Is that what you do at your work? Draw comics?” I didn’t particularly care, but talking to Marit took my mind off the night before and all the nights ahead.
“Oh, no. I’m a graphic artist but not for comics. I wish!”
I made a sound that would’ve passed for decent conversation among grunting pigs.
“You want to talk about what happened?” she asked after a minute.
“Not really.”
“Okay,” Marit said gently. “You don’t have to talk.”
“Thank you.” I leaned my head against the cool of the window. Amsterdam sped by on the other side of the glass, and on the other side of my impenetrable dark. Goddamn, but I was sick of it, and it was obvious that I’d never stop being sick of it. I would never be what Charlotte needed me to be.
A screech, and then the car came to a halt.
“We’re here,” Marit said. “I’ll park and walk you to your room.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You don’t have your cane. And your face… Um…”
I touched my bloodied nose. “It’s that bad, eh?”
“It’s not good.”
Marit led me to my suite, where I immediately went for the bed and lay back. My ribs ached, as did my stomach, as if I’d done a thousand crunches. I heard Marit rummage in the bathroom.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said.
“I know,” she called, “but I can’t leave, either. My mother tells me I’m the neatest of her children. My teachers too, in school. I always cleaned up the messes. And you are a mess.”
She pulled up a chair next to the bed. “This might sting.” I winced as she dabbed the cuts and bruises on my face. “Anything broken? Your nose is not. A miracle. How are your ribs?”
