Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

”Max had been running on no sleep for weeks,” said Sean. ”He needed someone to sit with him.”

”He doesn’t usually let people do that,” said Amara. She glanced at Max briefly. ”He keeps things compartmentalized. He’s very good at it.” Back to Sean. ”The fact that he let you sit with him on that day tells me more about what you are to him than anything he’s actually said about you.” She tilted her head slightly. ”Which is a great deal, by the way. He doesn’t know how much he says about people through what he chooses not to say.”

”Amara,” said Max.

”I’m observing,” said Amara. ”It’s a professional meeting.”

Sean looked around the room. At the two correctly positioned chairs. At the organized surfaces. At the notebook on the bedside table with a pen resting precisely across its cover. At the absence of flowers that had been deliberately arranged rather than simply not there.

”You’ve been here a long time,” said Sean.

”Three years in and out,” said Amara. ”More in than out recently. Before the surgery.” She looked at her hands for a moment. ”You spend that kind of time in a place and you start to see how it actually works. Not the official version. The real version.” She looked up. ”Who actually cares and who is performing caring. Who uses their time and who manages their time. The difference is visible if you’re here long enough.”

”And you’ve been watching,” said Sean.

”I’ve been reading and watching,” said Amara. ”In roughly equal proportion.” She paused. ”There’s a doctor on this ward. She works primarily with the sickle cell patients. Pediatric and young adult.”

Sean looked at her.

”I’ve been watching her for two years,” said Amara. ”Every rotation she comes through. She’s different from the others. Not in a performed way. In the actual way.” She paused, choosing her words. ”The other doctors are good. Some of them are very good. But they work in the time they’re scheduled to work and they go home when their shift ends. This one doesn’t.” She looked at Sean. ”I’ve seen her here at seven in the morning on a Sunday. Not because she was on call. Just because she was here. She sits with the children who don’t have visitors. She reads to them. I could hear her from my room, down the hallway, reading these stories to kids who were scared and whose parents couldn’t always be there.”

”There are rumors,” said Amara. ”Among the longer-term patients. That she uses a significant portion of her salary to cover costs for families who can’t manage the treatment fees. I don’t know the exact figure. But I’ve heard seventy percent mentioned by people who would know.”

Sean looked at Max.

Max looked back at him with the expression of someone who trusted his sister’s assessments categorically and was communicating that trust without needing to elaborate on it.

”Does she know you’ve been watching her,” said Sean.

”She knows I’m observant,” said Amara. ”She brought me an extra blanket once without being asked because she’d noticed I was cold. I told her I noticed things too.” A small pause. ”She laughed. She said that made two of them.”

”What’s her name,” said Sean.

”Dr. Grace Ellison,” said Amara. ”She’s been on this ward for eight years.”

Sean looked at Max. ”Do you know where her office is.”

”I can find it,” said Max.

Sean looked back at Amara. She was watching him with those direct eyes, and something in her expression had shifted from the professional meeting composure into something more genuine, the specific look of someone who had been waiting to say what they just said to the right person for a long time.

”You’re thinking about something,” said Amara.

”I’m always thinking about something,” said Sean.

”This is a specific kind,” said Amara. ”The kind that arrives and then you go quiet for exactly the right amount of time before you do something about it.” She looked at him steadily. ”Max does the same thing. It’s how I know you’ve been spending time together.”

Max looked at the window.

Sean stood up. ”Will you still be here this afternoon,” he said.

”I’ll be here for at least two more weeks,” said Amara. ”The discharge timeline is optimistic but not imminent.”

”I’ll come back,” said Sean. ”After we’ve talked to Dr. Ellison.”

Amara looked at him. ”After you’ve talked to her,” she said slowly. ”Not after you’ve found out if I was right.”

”I already know you’re right,” said Sean. ”I’m going to talk to her because the next part requires her participation.”

Amara was quiet for a moment, genuinely quiet, the first time since he’d walked into the room.

”What next part,” she said.

”I’ll tell you when I come back,” said Sean.

He looked at Max. Max was already standing.

”You came here to thank you,” said Amara, more to herself than to them. ”And now you’re leaving to do something.”

”I came here because you asked me to,” said Sean. ”The something is a separate decision.”

She looked at him for a long moment, the specific assessment still running, the mental picture being compared against the actual thing.

”You’re not like the people in my novels,” she said.

”You’ve mentioned that,” said Max.

”I’m elaborating,” said Amara. ”The people in my novels are good in the way that is designed to be noticed. This is different.” She looked at Sean. ”Please Come back this afternoon.”

”I’ll be back this afternoon,” said Sean.

He walked to the door. Max followed.

”Sean,” said Amara, from the bed.

He paused at the doorway.

”The children on this ward,” she said. ”The ones Dr. Ellison reads to. The ones whose families are struggling.” She looked at him steadily. ”They deserve the same chance I just got.”

”I know, i am planning to do something to help them” said Sean.

”Thank you very much” said Amara. with a smile shown on her face.