I open my mouth to say No you're not sleeping, but I remember there's no reason to be talking through the door. Evan's bedroom has another entrance. Because this is the room Jesus built for other pleasure slaves: the kind who, occasionally, would pass through here before being routed to another market—often European. Male slaves. So the en suite bathroom is a bridge between the guestroom and Jesus and David’s quarters.
Just as I step back to turn and go the other way, I hear another awful moan, followed by the rustling of bedding.
“Evan? What's wrong?”
He doesn't answer, and that really bothers me.
I take off running toward Jesus’s door before I realize I won’t be able to get in. I don’t have the code for that. Frack!
I run a few steps back toward Evan's room before I think to check—just see. Maybe David left the thing open. I run a few dozen yards down and SCORE. The door is cracked.
I've only seen the room once, and I don't bother to see if it still looks the same, or what is in it. I fly into the massive, kingly bathroom, unlatch the door to Evan's room, and burst inside like a marauder.
I don't know what I was expecting, but what I see isn't it. Evan is lying on the floor, curled over on his side, clawing his left hand with his right one and banging the back of his head into the three- or four-inch space between the floor and the bottom of the low-slung bed frame. His eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth are clenched, and he's breathing like someone who's in a lot of pain.
I close the space between us and drop down on my knees. I stare into his twisted face, realizing that the dark stuff on his lips isn't a wine stain; it's actual blood. He bites into the lip again, and I clamp my hand over my own mouth.
“Evan...” I whisper. “What happened?”
He doesn't make a move to open his eyes, only lifts his face just a little and draws his left arm up to his chest. The fingers of his right hand claw at his forearm; it's already lined with deep red scratches.
He moans again, and turns his head so the sweat on his forehead and face glistens in the low globe lights embedded in the ceiling. Another moan, one that sounds less human, followed by some more deep breathing. When he exhales, the sound seems like it's coming from the bottom of his lungs.
“Evan?”
“Sorry,” he moans.
He curls over more tightly into himself and brings his right arm behind his head, pushing down against the back of his skull. He whimpers, and I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy watching this.
My hands are itching to touch him, itching to smooth his hair and find out where he’s hurting, but I'm scared to hurt him more.
I shut my eyes as low, hoarse sounds of anguish come from his throat. He's tugging at his hair now, flexing the fingers of his left hand—the one he said he couldn't move. He lets out a bunch of little moans, like someone's hurting him and he just can't get away. Then he pants some more, and I get on my knees and move around him, looking for something to explain this.
“Evan, can you talk to me? I want to help you.”
“Can't,” he grits out.
“Was it the alcohol?”
He presses the palm of his right hand against his forehead, opening his mouth more so he can breathe more deeply. “It's the...wreck.”
His eyes screw shut, and I'm astonished to see tears slip down his cheeks. He gathers his knees up near his chest and bites his lip again, and I'm positive I've never seen anything more painful-looking in my life.
I take my own deep breath, sitting up on my heels beside him. “You don't mean this wreck, do you? You mean the one before. The one where you hurt your neck.”
He sucks back a half-sobbed breath. “It's the nerves.”
He grits his teeth and his body trembles as both of his hands make fists. I shut my eyes and try to process what he's saying. I'm not a doctor or a nurse, but I know the spine is made of vertebrae, the bones; discs; joints; and nerves. When you damage bones and discs and joints, the nerves can get pinched and damaged.
“Does this happen a lot?”
His breathing is faster now, like he's building to something, and I wonder if he's going to hyperventilate.
“Can I get you pain meds? I think there are some here.”
His eyes flip open. “No,” he growls.
His words sound almost slurred, but his eyes hold onto mine until I nod. “Okay. I won't if you don't want it.”
And it's like while he was speaking to me, the pain caught up with him, because he's covering his face and breathing really loudly again now.