Novienc

September 27, 2009

Uranium City, Canada

Miles stepped into St. Cassian’s infirmary, greeted by a guttural sense of lament born from the alarming stillness of the place. It was supposed to be a quick trip to gather information—just a lead that had dragged him to this remote mining town, where the mines now stood hollow. The air was wrong: too quiet, too sterilized for a Catholic school that had just endured a tragedy. A handful of religious images lined the walls, flanked by posters from a half-baked political campaign: Vote for Ocean, they proclaimed. If only the saints had done something to safeguard the would-be president’s luck.

Inside, a woman was arranging what from his perspective looked like cheap medical instruments—metal collapsing in on itself, rusted, old, their former sheen long eroded by overuse. If you looked closely at the plastic handles, you could make out fingerprints etched into the material. Fixing his attention on the one manipulating those trinkets, who with subtle movements managed to lend them a touch of refinement, he recognized the profile immediately: a sharp jawline, focused eyes, an air of quiet competence. Galina Ker—Kor—, the surname hard to recall, harder still to pronounce with his American tongue. Yet when he had knocked and entered, she hadn’t even flinched.

“The infirmary hours are over,” she said flatly, without turning around. “If you’re here to ask for a favor or an autograph, the answer is no.”

“That depends—how much do you charge for either one?” Miles smiled, leaning against the doorframe.

She froze for a heartbeat. Her body tensed almost imperceptibly before she turned, slow, with the most neutral expression he had ever seen. Her eyes skimmed him quickly—recognition was obvious—but she pretended otherwise, her words still formal.

“The infirmary hours are over,” she repeated. “Can I help you with anything else?” Her tone struck the perfect balance of disinterest and faint irritation.

“I’m here to ask a few questions,” Miles replied softly, careful with his tone, planning his next move with caution. “People tend to say that’s my job.”

“Sounds tedious,” she said, face unreadable, glancing at her watch as though her time was worth more than indulging him. “But I’m afraid I’m just the school nurse. I don’t know anything about whatever it is you’re asking. There’s nothing interesting here. And if it’s about the accident, you can keep your morbid curiosity and find someone else.” Her brow furrowed. “Mr. Wilson already warned us others like you’d be coming. The kids have had enough cameras and microphones shoved in their faces without a stranger wandering the halls. At least the others were locals.”

“I heard you’re good at patching up scrapes and fixing broken things,” he said quietly, letting the words land. “I’m not talking about bones, but maybe you could mend a few holes in this story too.”

Galina narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t take the bait.

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of gossip by the water cooler. Nuns talk more than people think. But there’s this thing called medical confidentiality—though I doubt you know much about ethics.” Her gaze swept him head to toe and back again. “Besides, you strike me as the ‘Google it yourself’ type.”

“That’s not a legitimate source.” He pushed off the doorway and leaned against the wall closer to her. He tried to look casual, but something about the room made him think of a late-night documentary he’d once watched drunk—an antelope being swallowed whole by an anaconda, or something like that. Point was, like the antelope, he could feel the air thinning, and he had the distinct sense he’d end up prey unless he ran fast enough. “Come on. A place like this? I bet you hear plenty. Patients always talk.” He paused. “It’d be a shame if someone decided to dig a little deeper, find out what’s really going on behind closed doors.”

“Are you lost?” she asked sweetly, dripping false courtesy. “This is a school, not Area 51. Nobody’s hiding top-secret files or conspiracies. Try the library if you’re that desperate for drama. Or better yet, the bar—men there will tell you where to find a brothel that won’t end with you stabbed, robbed, or outright dead.”

“You’re good,” he chuckled under his breath. “Almost had me fooled, nurse—what was it again? Oh wait, no need for names. Hangman or charades—your pick.”

“I don’t play with strangers.” She arched her brow, unimpressed. “Especially the kind that swagger in thinking they’ll squeeze something useful out of me. I don’t like the voyeurs. But I’d be happy to point you toward the cafeteria. They love a good story. The kids are reading Lord of the Flies—maybe they’ll pay you some attention. But you don’t exactly scream interesting.”

Miles stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“You might be good at pretending, but I’m not buying the act. We both know something’s wrong here, and I’d bet anything you’re right in the middle of it. You always had a taste for danger, didn’t you?”

For a moment, he thought he saw a spark in her eyes, something that looked suspiciously like a challenge. But then she shrugged, brushing off his intensity like lint from a sleeve.

“All I know is how to stop nosebleeds and tell kids not to swallow marbles. If you’re looking for more than that, try someone who actually cares about whatever it is you’ve got to say. With luck you’ll only walk away with a couple of bruises—and trust me, I won’t be the one patching you up.”

“You’ve got the upper hand, I’ll give you that. But people who really don’t care don’t waste this much effort pretending.” He stepped back, a faintly mocking smile tugging at his lips. “Still, I get it—you’d rather act like we never crossed paths. Like Congo was just another bad dream.”

She didn’t flinch, though the air between them seemed to drop a few degrees.

“You’re mistaken, stranger,” she said with a syrupy sweetness that clashed with the sharpness in her eyes. “You must have confused me with someone else. I’m Russian, not Congolese. I suppose accents aren’t your strength—you sound far too American to know anything beyond your little bubble. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do: saving the world one Band-Aid at a time.” With a mock flourish of her arm, her false enthusiasm made Miles chuckle briefly, shaking his head. Turns out the anaconda was more wary of the gazelle.

“Sure, nurse. But let’s not pretend we’re done here. We both know there’s more under the surface. And I happen to be a damn good reporter—or at least that’s what I tell myself. Very humble, as you’ve probably noticed.” He winked, just to get under her skin.

Galina watched him as he turned to leave, her expression cold, unreadable.

“Next time, there still won’t be autographs—much less favors.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Miles replied without looking back.

As he walked away, he could almost feel her gaze on his back—calculating, measuring every detail of him, as she always had. Even if time had kept her hidden like a well-guarded secret, it betrayed her now in the subtle shift of her hair: from golden to a vibrant red, falling from the crown of her head to her shoulders. That fire not only sharpened the heat in her eyes but seemed to radiate its own kind of wisdom, a blend of experience and cool detachment. For all her metamorphosis, she was still the same woman—piercing gaze, calculated silences, wrapped in a mask of indifference.

September 27, 2009

Uranium City, Canada

Miles stepped into St. Cassian’s infirmary, greeted by a guttural sense of lament born from the alarming stillness of the place. It was supposed to be a quick trip to gather information—just a lead that had dragged him to this remote mining town, where the mines now stood hollow. The air was wrong: too quiet, too sterilized for a Catholic school that had just endured a tragedy. A handful of religious images lined the walls, flanked by posters from a half-baked political campaign: Vote for Ocean, they proclaimed. If only the saints had done something to safeguard the would-be president’s luck.

Inside, a woman was arranging what from his perspective looked like cheap medical instruments—metal collapsing in on itself, rusted, old, their former sheen long eroded by overuse. If you looked closely at the plastic handles, you could make out fingerprints etched into the material. Fixing his attention on the one manipulating those trinkets, who with subtle movements managed to lend them a touch of refinement, he recognized the profile immediately: a sharp jawline, focused eyes, an air of quiet competence. Galina Ker—Kor—, the surname hard to recall, harder still to pronounce with his American tongue. Yet when he had knocked and entered, she hadn’t even flinched.

“The infirmary hours are over,” she said flatly, without turning around. “If you’re here to ask for a favor or an autograph, the answer is no.”

“That depends—how much do you charge for either one?” Miles smiled, leaning against the doorframe.

She froze for a heartbeat. Her body tensed almost imperceptibly before she turned, slow, with the most neutral expression he had ever seen. Her eyes skimmed him quickly—recognition was obvious—but she pretended otherwise, her words still formal.

“The infirmary hours are over,” she repeated. “Can I help you with anything else?” Her tone struck the perfect balance of disinterest and faint irritation.

“I’m here to ask a few questions,” Miles replied softly, careful with his tone, planning his next move with caution. “People tend to say that’s my job.”

“Sounds tedious,” she said, face unreadable, glancing at her watch as though her time was worth more than indulging him. “But I’m afraid I’m just the school nurse. I don’t know anything about whatever it is you’re asking. There’s nothing interesting here. And if it’s about the accident, you can keep your morbid curiosity and find someone else.” Her brow furrowed. “Mr. Wilson already warned us others like you’d be coming. The kids have had enough cameras and microphones shoved in their faces without a stranger wandering the halls. At least the others were locals.”

“I heard you’re good at patching up scrapes and fixing broken things,” he said quietly, letting the words land. “I’m not talking about bones, but maybe you could mend a few holes in this story too.”

Galina narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t take the bait.

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of gossip by the water cooler. Nuns talk more than people think. But there’s this thing called medical confidentiality—though I doubt you know much about ethics.” Her gaze swept him head to toe and back again. “Besides, you strike me as the ‘Google it yourself’ type.”

“That’s not a legitimate source.” He pushed off the doorway and leaned against the wall closer to her. He tried to look casual, but something about the room made him think of a late-night documentary he’d once watched drunk—an antelope being swallowed whole by an anaconda, or something like that. Point was, like the antelope, he could feel the air thinning, and he had the distinct sense he’d end up prey unless he ran fast enough. “Come on. A place like this? I bet you hear plenty. Patients always talk.” He paused. “It’d be a shame if someone decided to dig a little deeper, find out what’s really going on behind closed doors.”

“Are you lost?” she asked sweetly, dripping false courtesy. “This is a school, not Area 51. Nobody’s hiding top-secret files or conspiracies. Try the library if you’re that desperate for drama. Or better yet, the bar—men there will tell you where to find a brothel that won’t end with you stabbed, robbed, or outright dead.”

“You’re good,” he chuckled under his breath. “Almost had me fooled, nurse—what was it again? Oh wait, no need for names. Hangman or charades—your pick.”

“I don’t play with strangers.” She arched her brow, unimpressed. “Especially the kind that swagger in thinking they’ll squeeze something useful out of me. I don’t like the voyeurs. But I’d be happy to point you toward the cafeteria. They love a good story. The kids are reading Lord of the Flies—maybe they’ll pay you some attention. But you don’t exactly scream interesting.”

Miles stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“You might be good at pretending, but I’m not buying the act. We both know something’s wrong here, and I’d bet anything you’re right in the middle of it. You always had a taste for danger, didn’t you?”

For a moment, he thought he saw a spark in her eyes, something that looked suspiciously like a challenge. But then she shrugged, brushing off his intensity like lint from a sleeve.

“All I know is how to stop nosebleeds and tell kids not to swallow marbles. If you’re looking for more than that, try someone who actually cares about whatever it is you’ve got to say. With luck you’ll only walk away with a couple of bruises—and trust me, I won’t be the one patching you up.”

“You’ve got the upper hand, I’ll give you that. But people who really don’t care don’t waste this much effort pretending.” He stepped back, a faintly mocking smile tugging at his lips. “Still, I get it—you’d rather act like we never crossed paths. Like Congo was just another bad dream.”

She didn’t flinch, though the air between them seemed to drop a few degrees.

“You’re mistaken, stranger,” she said with a syrupy sweetness that clashed with the sharpness in her eyes. “You must have confused me with someone else. I’m Russian, not Congolese. I suppose accents aren’t your strength—you sound far too American to know anything beyond your little bubble. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do: saving the world one Band-Aid at a time.” With a mock flourish of her arm, her false enthusiasm made Miles chuckle briefly, shaking his head. Turns out the anaconda was more wary of the gazelle.

“Sure, nurse. But let’s not pretend we’re done here. We both know there’s more under the surface. And I happen to be a damn good reporter—or at least that’s what I tell myself. Very humble, as you’ve probably noticed.” He winked, just to get under her skin.

Galina watched him as he turned to leave, her expression cold, unreadable.

“Next time, there still won’t be autographs—much less favors.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Miles replied without looking back.

As he walked away, he could almost feel her gaze on his back—calculating, measuring every detail of him, as she always had. Even if time had kept her hidden like a well-guarded secret, it betrayed her now in the subtle shift of her hair: from golden to a vibrant red, falling from the crown of her head to her shoulders. That fire not only sharpened the heat in her eyes but seemed to radiate its own kind of wisdom, a blend of experience and cool detachment. For all her metamorphosis, she was still the same woman—piercing gaze, calculated silences, wrapped in a mask of indifference.