EverHeart

Chapter 4: The Clinic

Puerto Espera was louder at noon than it had any right to be.

The harbor curved below us in a glittering crescent crowded with fishing boats painted colors too cheerful for the amount of rust on them. Motorbikes threaded between delivery carts. Protective charms knocked softly against several masts beside coils of ordinary rope, while someone near the market shouted about tuna prices over music playing through blown speakers.

Heat gathered beneath every awning.

By the time we reached town, Marco had eaten the second pastry Cami brought.

I watched the empty paper bag crumple in his hand.

“That was supposed to last until after the appointment.”

“You never said that.”

“I thought rationing was implied.”

“There were two pastries.”

“There are three people.”

He looked at Cami.

She lifted both hands. “Don't involve me. I already ate mine.”

“Traitor.”

“I have no loyalty to a man who steals custard.”

Marco considered this.

“Reasonable.”

He sounded almost normal.

Almost.

He'd been quieter since leaving the cottage. Not silent—Marco seemed physiologically incapable of that—but the spaces between his comments had widened.

His attention kept catching on fruit stalls, faded hotel signs, narrow streets spilling toward the water.

Not like a tourist.

Like someone checking whether he remembered them.

He didn't.

Cami walked backward ahead of us, sunglasses pushed into her curls.

“Santa Isla is small, but Ortega is good. He stitched Nico's hand back together after my brother tried fixing a boat engine while it was running.”

Marco blinked.

“Why?”

“Nico possesses many gifts. Judgment isn't one of them.”

“I've gathered.”

I looked at him.

He caught me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was a look.”

Cami turned around. “You'll learn. Lucy has at least twelve versions of nothing.”

“I do not.”

“That's number four.”

Marco laughed.

There.

Better.

---

Santa Isla Medical stood two streets from the waterfront between a pharmacy and a bakery that smelled aggressively of butter.

Inside, a ceiling fan moved hot air from one side of the waiting room to the other. Beside notices about vaccinations and dehydration, a laminated sign asked patients to disclose active glamours, blood-bound conditions, healing enchantments, or nonhuman physiology before treatment.

Maribel, the receptionist, looked at Cami.

Then me.

Then Marco.

“So this is him.”

Marco turned toward me.

I ignored it.

Cami smiled. “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“You called twenty minutes ago and said Lucy found a man on the beach.”

Marco looked at me again.

“I was concise.”

“You made me sound like driftwood.”

“You were unconscious.”

“That doesn't make it better.”

I took the form Maribel handed me.

There wasn't much to put on it.

Marco.

No surname.

No known date of birth, address, allergies, medical history, or emergency contact.

The page grew increasingly accusatory.

Then I reached Relationship to Patient.

Marco leaned closer.

“What are you putting?”

“I haven't decided.”

“Beach debris?”

I looked at him.

He grinned.

But his thumb rubbed slowly against the side of his forefinger.

Over and over.

I wrote Friend.

The pen paused afterward.

Then I set it down.

Marco said nothing.

Neither did I.

---

Dr. Ortega was compact and sun-browned, silver beginning at his temples. He looked Marco over once.

“You walked here?”

“Apparently.”

Ortega looked at me.

“He's been doing that.”

“I'm standing right here.”

“Good sign,” Ortega said.

Marco frowned.

The examination room was marginally cooler than reception. Marco sat on the paper-covered bed while Ortega took his temperature.

The doctor checked the display twice.

“Thirty-eight point one.”

Marco looked at me.

“Is that bad?”

“You'd usually feel quite bad,” Ortega said. “Chills? Headache? Nausea?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“A little yesterday. None today.”

Ortega touched Marco's forehead, then his neck.

“You do run warm.”

“Charming trait.”

“Marco.”

He looked at me.

“Answer properly.”

Something softened briefly in his expression.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Behind me, Cami made a choking noise.

I decided not to turn around.

Ortega checked Marco's heart, lungs, pupils, reflexes, balance.

Everything worked.

That should have been reassuring.

It wasn't.

The bruises I'd seen yesterday were gone.

Ortega lifted Marco's shirt.

“You said there was bruising?”

“Across most of his left side.”

His skin was clear.

Ortega pressed along the ribs.

“Pain?”

“No.”

The doctor's eyes found mine.

“There was blood on him when I found him,” I said. “A lot.”

“Any open wounds?”

“One.”

Marco's attention sharpened.

I hadn't told him everything.

“Where?” Ortega asked.

“Lower abdomen.”

Marco lifted his shirt farther.

Nothing.

No scar. No discoloration. Not even the faint pink line healing skin should have left.

His hand came down slowly.

“That's where I was hurt?”

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

Bad enough that you should have died.

“Bad.”

His eyes met mine.

I had the uncomfortable impression he'd heard the part I hadn't said.

---

Ortega drew blood.

Cami immediately turned toward the wall.

“You're afraid of needles?” Marco asked.

“I respect them from a distance.”

“You have earrings.”

“That was fashion. Different category.”

Marco smiled.

Then the needle went in.

His fingers tightened against the examination paper.

Not pain.

His face emptied.

The room disappeared from his eyes.

White.

Metal.

Restraints.

“Marco.”

His gaze snapped to mine.

For half a second, he didn't recognize me.

Then he did.

His shoulders loosened.

Barely.

“I'm fine.”

Crooked.

Not quite a lie.

“I know.”

He watched me another moment before turning back to Ortega.

This time he didn't look at the needle.

---

The clinic processed basic blood work on-site.

Everything came back normal.

Too normal.

No obvious infection. Electrolytes and blood sugar fine. Hemoglobin better than it had any business being if the blood on the beach had been his.

Ortega read the results twice.

Then he sat down.

“I'd like you to go to the mainland.”

Marco stopped moving.

His hands had been turning an empty coffee cup between them.

Now they were still.

“For what?”

“A CT scan at minimum. Possibly additional imaging. With the memory loss and the condition Lucy found you in, I don't want to assume there was no head injury simply because you're walking around.”

“How far?”

“Ferry to San Telmo. About an hour and forty minutes.”

Marco nodded too quickly.

“And I come back after?”

“If everything is clear.”

“When?”

“Today would be ideal.”

His thumb pressed into the cup's paper seam.

Then he looked at me.

“Are you going?”

The question landed softly.

Cami looked between us.

And I understood.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Marco didn't know San Telmo.

He didn't know the ferry or the mainland. He didn't know whether another city somewhere should have felt like his, whether there was another room, another bed, another person waiting for him.

Moira was the only place he'd woken twice.

My cottage was the only door he knew how to open without wondering what waited behind it.

And I—

I was the only person he remembered.

My chest tightened.

I disliked it immediately.

“If you go,” I said, “I'm going.”

His fingers loosened around the cup.

Ortega looked at me.

“You don't have to.”

“I know.”

Marco lowered his eyes.

The relief crossed his face before he could hide it.

That bothered me more than the fear had.

Ortega leaned back.

“He's stable. Neurologically, I don't see anything acute. We can observe him here for several hours and arrange imaging tomorrow if nothing changes.”

“You're comfortable with that?”

“Comfortable is generous. I'd prefer imaging today, but I also prefer patients who don't panic halfway across the channel.”

Marco straightened.

“I'm not panicking.”

Ortega looked at his hands.

“You're crushing that cup.”

Marco glanced down.

The cardboard had folded almost flat.

He released it.

Cami stared.

“So. Super strength?”

Marco gave her a tired look.

“Terrifying coffee-related abilities.”

“Good. I was worried.”

---

Ortega gave us a list of symptoms that meant immediate return.

Vomiting. Increasing headache. Confusion. Weakness. Vision changes. Seizure.

Anything unusual.

At that one, his eyes met mine.

We both knew the definition had become inconvenient.

I folded the paper into my bag.

“We'll stay nearby.”

Marco looked at me.

“You don't have to babysit me.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep saying things that require it.”

His mouth twitched.

We left the clinic just after two.

Puerto Espera had slowed beneath the afternoon heat. Shopkeepers sat in doorways with electric fans aimed at their knees. Boats knocked gently against the harbor wall.

Marco stopped beneath the awning.

“You okay?” Cami asked.

“Yeah.”

This time the word sat cleanly.

Not completely true.

But honestly meant.

A ferry moved beyond the breakwater, white against blue.

“That's the mainland ferry?”

Cami nodded.

Marco watched until it became smaller.

Then he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I know this sounds stupid.”

I waited.

He laughed once without humor.

“I woke up here two days ago, and somehow leaving already feels…”

He stopped.

Even Cami let the silence remain.

“Like I'd be leaving something behind.”

I looked at the man who had arrived with no past and, in less than forty-eight hours, begun building routines around my kitchen.

Coffee.

Eggs.

A broken shutter.

Plans for tomorrow.

“You're not leaving today.”

He looked up.

“No?”

“Doctor's orders.”

“That wasn't exactly what he said.”

“I've chosen to interpret them creatively.”

Marco smiled.

Small.

Real.

Cami looped an arm through his.

“Excellent. Then we're getting lunch.”

He looked down at her arm.

“Didn't we just eat?”

She stared at him.

I stared at him.

Marco sighed.

“Right. Stupid question.”

We started toward the harbor.

Halfway down the hill, Marco fell into step beside me.

Not ahead.

Not behind.

Beside.

His shoulder brushed mine when the street narrowed.

He didn't move away.

Neither did I.

Below us, Puerto Espera burned gold beneath the afternoon sun, loud and ordinary and alive.

For the first time since I'd pulled him from the sea, Marco wasn't looking at it like somewhere he was trying to remember.

He was looking at it like somewhere he might be allowed to stay.