“I don’t. But I meant it about the bureaucrats.” He stared at the ceiling, taking three careful, rattling breaths. My panic stirred, settling in a familiar place in my soul. I’ve heard this sound before.

His eyes closed, and I jerked forward. “Quen!” I shouted, then felt stupid when his lids flew open and focused on me with an eerie intensity.

“Just resting my eyes,” he said, amused by my fear. “I have a few hours. I can feel things faltering, and I have at least that long.” His gaze lingered on my neck, then rose. “Having trouble with your roommate?”

I refused to cover my bites, but it was hard. “Wake-up call,” I said. “Sometimes it takes a two-by-four across your head to realize what you want isn’t what you’ll end up with if you get it.”

His head barely shifted. “Good.” He took a slow breath. “You’re a safer person to be around now. Very good.”

Dr. Anders shifted position to remind me she was listening. Frustrated, I leaned closer until the new skin on my bites pulled, smelling pine and sun under the medicinal smells of alcohol and adhesive tape. I glanced at Dr. Anders, then asked him, “Why am I here?”

Quen’s eyes opened wider and he turned his head to see me, hesitating as he stifled the urge to cough. “Not ‘What did you do to get like this’?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I already asked that, and you got all nasty, so I thought I’d go with something else.”

Closing his eyes again, Quen simply breathed, slow and labored. “I already told you why I asked you here.”

The bureaucrat thing? “Okay,” I said, wanting to take his hand to give him strength, but I felt funny about it, as if he would think I pitied him. That would just tick him off. “Then tell me what you did to yourself.”

He took a ragged breath, then held it. “Something I had to,” he said on the exhale.

Nice. Just peachy. “So I’m just here to hold your hand while you die?” I said, frustrated.

“Something like that.”

I looked at his hand, not ready to take it. Awkwardly I scooted closer, the chair bumping over the low wooden mat. “Least you have good music,” I muttered, and the creases in his face eased slightly.

“You like Takata?” he said.

“What’s not to like?” Jaw clenched, I listened to Quen breathe. It sounded wet, like he was drowning. Agitated, I looked at his hand, then the journal on the bedside. “Should I read something?” I asked, wanting to know why I was here. I couldn’t just up and leave. Why in hell was Quen doing this to me?

Quen started to chuckle, cutting it short to take three slow breaths until they evened out again. “No. You’ve watched death come slowly before, haven’t you.”