Chapter 2 – Blood is Thicker than Water
The shop was dark. I called Nicolas' name time and time again, but received no reply.
"Nick? Nicky! Nicolas Kingston, you come here this minute!" I jogged up the stairs to his quarters above the shop. He wasn't there. I went back down to the workroom and saw the warm glow radiating from the old iron stove in the corner. I stepped over and opened the door to the stove. The embers glowed golden hot. The fire was new. I crept around the stove to where Nicolas kept the wood and coals for the fire, careful not to burn myself of the warm iron. There he was, on the floor, a gash across his head, still bleeding. The backside of the stove was smeared with his warm blood.
I dropped quickly to the ground beside him, shaking him gently. "Nicky, it's me, Meg. Nick, wake up!" I lifted his head into my lap and rocked him. A tear slipped down my cheek and landed on his soiled face. He was so thin, so gaunt, so pale. Before I knew what I was doing, I scooped him up in my trembling arms and carried his frail body to the door. He was so light…too light. Running out into the street, I began to shout, "Help! Someone, please, help us!" A man was coming out of the next shop and immediately rushed up to me. He took Nicolas from my arms.
"Is he breathing?" the man asked.
"I think so," I stuttered, nodding. I brushed the tears and hair from my face and followed the man toward the private home of the town's only doctor and surgeon, Dr. Franklin Morris. He claimed to be the best doctor ever to treat patients, that he could cure anything. Then again, no one could really argue with him on that point. The truth was, most of the citizens living on our island had never been anywhere else and had never had the chance to encounter a doctor other than Old Man Morris.
The doctor was home that day, having his midday meal in the kitchen. When we came stumbling in, he stopped in his tracks. He shoved everything off the table and the man from the street laid Nicolas' limp body on the cold wood. Morris recognized Nicolas immediately. He paid little attention to me as he went to work. He cleaned and bandaged the wound on Nicolas' forehead and listened intently to his haggard breathing. Then, he pumped some sort of drug into his arm with a long needle. I couldn't watch. Then Morris sat down and told me to wait. An hour passed before Nicolas began to regain consciousness.
I could hardly bear to look at his face. It was white and thin. His eyes, which were usually warm brown windows into his heart, were glassy, pale, and bloodshot. It was as if his body was there, but his soul was missing somewhere. All I could think about was finding it, bringing it back to him. I couldn't look at him in the same way as I usually did. He coughed weakly. Morris looked him in the eye.
"What did I tell you about staying in bed, son?" he asked. Nicolas struggled to speak audibly.
"I can't…pay…if I can't work," he managed before a coughing spasm took hold of him.
"You could have killed yourself today, son. You're lucky this young lady found you when she did. A little longer and you would have been beyond even my aid." Nicolas slowly turned his head toward me. For a brief second, he smiled faintly and I saw that old glimmer in his eyes.
"Meg," he whispered. Then, as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. Nicolas passed out again and we did not try to wake him. I looked at the doctor.
"I'll make sure he stays put this time," I assured him. The old man looked at me quizzically.
"Who are you?" he asked. "You aren't family, are you?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I'm…a friend." The man from the street, who turned out to be Morris' son, helped me take Nick back to the room above the shop, where I stayed until he woke again.