The Shippers(94)

“Well, then,” I said, “you’re welcome.”

We kept up our pace, turned on a landing, and started the next flight. We were almost home free. I could see the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL door waiting for us up ahead. Getting out of here wouldn’t fix everything, but it would definitely take cleithrophobia problem off the list.

But that’s when Cooper decided to say something else.

We were still jogging up those tight stairs. He was right behind me. We were making good time.

And then, in what must have been the weirdest timing for a statement like this in all of human history, Cooper just said, behind me, mid–stair flight, “You don’t ever have to apologize for kissing me, JoJo.”

“No?” I said, just kind of making idle chitchat until we reached the door. “Why not?”

“Because…” Cooper said then, “I think I’m in love with you.”



* * *



WORDS ARE MORE powerful than they seem. Right?

They don’t have any weight or mass or heft. They’re just sounds in the air.

And yet.

The sound of those words stopped me short. My whole body just stopped moving—froze, right there, halfway up the ladder.

I stopped so fast that Cooper ran into me from behind.

At the impact, he lost his balance and missed his footing—and I heard an oof, then some clattering as Cooper half slid, half tumbled back down the stairs we’d just climbed and landed at the bottom.

The only sound I heard as I turned around was a string of curse words.

Down below, Cooper was clutching the stair rail like that was how he’d caught himself.

“Cooper!” I called. “I’m sorry!”

“I’m good,” he said, holding up a hand to wave me off like he didn’t need help.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, but he kept himself crouched like maybe he was still deciding.

“Can I help you up?” I said, moving back down toward him.

“I’ve got it,” Cooper said. Then: “I do think we might need to find the infirmary, though.”

“The infirmary?” I asked. “Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine…” Cooper insisted.

But as he got his feet under him and stood to start climbing again, I sucked in an involuntary gasp at the sight of his torso. His stone-colored linen vest was now blooming crimson with blood.

“You’re bleeding!” I announced—like he might not know.

Cooper looked down. “I’m fine,” he insisted again. Then he added, “But it looks like I just popped my stitches.”





Thirty-One


THE INFIRMARY HAD its own generator. They had lights and everything.

Quite the contrast from all the prehistoric darkness we’d had to fumble through to find it—and also so bright that it took our eyes a minute to adjust to the room.

When the doctor on call arrived, he wasn’t half as freaked out by Cooper’s blood-soaked shirt as I was.

“Hey, it’s the hero,” he joked when he saw Cooper. Then, leading us back to an exam room: “Back so soon?”

“Back?” I asked Cooper. “Have you been here before?”

Cooper was looking down at the blood on his shirt. “They changed my dressing earlier today.”

Changed his dressing? “Cooper,” I said as he leaned against an exam table and started unbuttoning his shirt. “What’s going on?”

I guess you could say Cooper answered me with his naked torso. Because once that shirt came off, I could see a ten-inch-long diagonal of sterile gauze taped to his abdomen—the bottom half of which was soaked with blood.

I put both hands over my mouth. “What happened?”

“You haven’t heard the story?” the doctor asked, helping Cooper lie back on the table.

“No,” I said. “What’s the story?”

The doctor peeled off the gauze to reveal a line of black sutures running diagonally down Cooper’s torso—holding together a long gash. A gash that was neatly reassembled until your eyes landed at the popped part. There, it was bright red and bleeding.

“Cooper?!” I demanded.

Cooper looked down. “It looks worse than it is.”

The doc took one look and said, “We’re going to need to re-suture.”

“How did you get this gash?” I asked Cooper.

“It’s not a big deal,” Cooper said.

I redirected my question to the doctor. “How did he get this gash?”

“I could tell you,” the doctor said, “but it probably violates about ten doctor-patient privileges.”

“It’s going to be one or the other of you,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “So who’s it going to be?”

“You should tell her,” the doctor said to Cooper. “She’ll be impressed.”

“You can take this one, Doc,” Cooper said, closing his eyes like he was less fine than he claimed. “I won’t sue.”

The doctor found some vials of local anesthetic and then got washed up.

“And make me sound good,” Cooper added from the table, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m always trying to impress this girl.”