The Wendigo

4

"There's only a few thousand in that account."

"How is that? She used to have over twenty in there."

"Medical bills. In-home care. All the stuff you couldn't take care of."

"You couldn't pay for that yourself? With your fancy fucking degree?"

"My degree's not transferable. How do you think a degree works?"

"What about the car?"

"Fuck you."

The bench where Clay sat beside his sleeping mother was a nexus of grief. Echoes from the nearby rooms gave him access to the mundane dramas of the hospital's night shift. The two sisters had traded barbed insults all night about the health and finances of their mother, who was presumably dying in front of them. In another room, a cartoon blared from the television while a woman pleaded with the nurse.

"The insurance is expired. I don't know what to tell you. I don't have benefits, he can't work— what do you expect me to—?"

The solemn voice of a priest faded in and out as he gave the Last Rites.

"May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up..."

The pain all around him made him revert to his most familiar emotion: guilt. Why should he be so relieved when there was all this pain around him?

But then, if he were honest with himself, he wasn't relieved. His pulse was still hovering somewhere in the 90s, the nerves on his neck still buzzed, and the sight of the crumpled bus with all those people—dead and mangled beyond recognition, most of them—lingered when he closed his eyes.

It was a miracle that Kenny was alive. That's what they all said.

While Kenny may have deserved the grace of the universe's divine intervention, Clay knew he was unworthy. It was a cosmic trick. It had to be. The universe always had the rug in its hands, poised to yank it out from under him.

Clay had gotten so used to the voices in the nearby rooms being indifferent to his presence there that he didn't realize the nurse was talking to him until she patted him on the shoulder.

"You can see him now," she repeated.

He left his snoring mother to sleep on the adjacent bench and followed the nurse down the hall to the room.

"Right in here," she said, "He's been asking for you."

Clay stepped through the doorway, out of the harsh fluorescent hallway, and into the dimness of Kenny's room, with only the lamp on the side table turned on. Kenny's head was wrapped in bandages. His cheeks, forehead, and neck were bruised and scraped. His arms were folded over his chest, both hands bandaged. In all the times Clay had imagined seeing his boyfriend in the flesh for the first time, he had never imagined this.

When Kenny saw Clay, he sat up with ease and a smile broke across his face.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Clay said.

Clay walked to his boyfriend's bedside and sat there, taking his hand. The first time they had touched. Their eyes became glossy and wet with tears.

"Nice to meet you, pal," said Kenny.

Clay's laugh caught on the lump in his throat.

"I'm so..."

"I know," Kenny said, "I am, too."

Up to now, their most intimate moments had been mediated through a phone screen. But this was their first moment in a room together. They could touch and feel the other's presence for the first time and the sensation of their closeness overwhelmed Clay. He bent over to kiss Kenny. It was a careful gesture in deference to his injuries. Kenny kissed back with a fierce hunger. His arms, bruised and scraped as they were, clasped over Clay's ribs and back and pulled him closer. Clay got over his surprise at this surge of passion and responded in kind, sliding his hands around Kenny's body. Their heads moved together, lips parting, wanting breaths on each other's mouths. Their hot tongues met. They craned their necks and made smacking kissing sounds like two enthusiastic teenagers.