Monza half-smiled back, but in her gut she felt a creeping of disgust. It mingled with the sickness she was feeling every so often, now. That sweating need.

She swallowed. “Could I—”

“Of course.” He was already holding the pipe out to her.

Close it.”

“It won’t close!” she hissed, three of the fingers just curling, the little one still sticking out straight, or as close to straight as it ever came. She remembered how nimble-fingered she used to be, how sure, and quick, and the frustration and the fury were sharper even than the pain. “They won’t close!”

“For weeks you have been lying here. I did not mend you so you could smoke husk and do nothing. Try harder.”

“Do you want to fucking try?”

“Very well.” His hand closed relentlessly around hers and forced the bent fingers into a crunching fist. Her eyes bulged from her head, breath whistling too fast for her to scream.

“I doubt you understand how much I am helping you.” He squeezed tighter and tighter. “One cannot grow without pain. One cannot improve without it. Suffering drives us to achieve great things.” The fingers of her good hand plucked and scrabbled uselessly at his fist. “Love is a fine cushion to rest upon, but only hate can make you a better person. There.” He let go of her and she sagged back, whimpering, watched her trembling fingers come gradually halfway open, scars standing out purple.

She wanted to kill him. She wanted to shriek every curse she knew. But she needed him too badly. So she held her tongue, sobbed, gasped, ground her teeth, smacked the back of her head against the bench.

“Now, close your hand.” She stared into his face, empty as a fresh-dug grave. “Now, or I must do it for you.”

She growled with the effort, whole arm throbbing to the shoulder. Gradually, the fingers inched closed, the little one still sticking straight. “There, you fucker!” She shook her numb, knobbly, twisted fist under his nose. “There!”

“Was that so hard?” He held the pipe out to her and she snatched it from him. “You need not thank me.”

And we will see if you can take the—”

She squealed, knees buckling, would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

“Still?” He frowned. “You should be able to walk. The bones are knitted. Pain, of course, but… perhaps a fragment within one of the joints, still. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere!” she snarled at him.

“I trust this is not simply your stubbornness. I would hate to open the wounds in your legs again unnecessarily.” He hooked one arm under her knees and lifted her without much effort back onto the bench. “I must go for a while.”

She clutched at him. “You’ll be back soon?”

“Very soon.”

His footsteps vanished down the corridor. She heard the front door click shut, the sound of the key scraping in the lock.

“Son of a fucking whore.” And she swung her legs down from the bench. She winced as her feet touched the floor, bared her teeth as she straightened up, growled softly as she let go of the bench and stood on her own feet.