“God, I’m so tired, Dutch. I slept all morning and I’m still so tired. It should be me. I should be you and you should be me. The one of us who wants a life should have it. It should be me in that bed. I don’t know what to do.”

She’d know what to do, if she still had a mind to know things. I know this in my heart as another dull thud comes blasting out of Duck.

I’m about to start reading again when I get an odd, urgent sense that it’s time to go. I put my lips to the soft, worn skin on the Duchess’s forehead and leave her to the flowers and machines. As I make my way down the stairs, it becomes clear that one of the voices I hear is familiar but out of place. I slip a little but manage not to stumble down the steps. My heart speeds up like I’m running or falling. But . . . no. It’s not my dad.

It’s coming from one of the rooms they use for checkups and treatments and stuff like that. “Tee, oh, zee.”

Shit, it’s Nick. I hide my smile behind my palms and hang back away from the door.

“Good,” Gretchen coos in her reassuring doctor way. “Line four?”

“L, P, E, D . . .”

“And nothing else is going on? No headaches? Spots in your vision?”

“No, nothing.”

“What about phantom smells, nausea, anything like that? Sleeping more than usual?”

“For Christ’s sake, I told you, everything else is completely normal.”

He doesn’t have to shout at her. Listening to him snarking is killing my satisfaction-high. I try to sneak by, but I’m only just past the door when I can feel eyes on me. I can sense her looking before she says anything, and I know it’s going to be a massive pain in the ass but there’s no way to escape.

It’s Gretchen, obviously. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Me? Aren’t you busy with a patient?”

Nick comes out of the examination room behind her. “We’re done here.” And he walks out without thanking her or anything. Douche.

Gretchen looks back at me. “Five minutes?”

The weight of the bag in my hand gets my attention. “I have a chicken here. From Rose. I’d better get home, get it in the fridge.”

“Here.” She reaches out and takes it from me. Just takes it. “I’ll stick it in ours. Go have a seat in my office.”

It’s more of an order than an invitation. I do as I’m told. Just my shit luck—marooned on a secluded island with no parents and instead of getting to do whatever I want I’ve got a zillion old grand-dorks bossing me around.