Bailey’s been fighting the little plastic cup long enough that condensation has made a wet ring on the tray. Foil tab on top. Somewhere, some bastard designed that tab and actually thought they had made something good. Idiot. His right thumb catches the edge. Foil slips. Pain flashes through his mutilated hand.

“Fuck.”

Softly. Everything comes out soft when it hurts this bad. When he's trying to hold back the screams. Both hands wrapped wrist to fingertip, bulky gauze over grafts that pull every time he moves. Fingers don’t close anymore. Occupational therapist calls it limited range of motion. Bailey calls it not being able to open his own goddamn juice. Room smells like medicated petroleum and antiseptic. Four months ago it was cedar soap, sweat, whatever smoke Station 9 dragged home on his clothes. Now it’s this room. Leaning his head back on the pillow. Cornbread on the tray too. Next to the damn juice. Wrapped in foil. Mama came before work, kissed the only patch of forehead that wasn't burned, called him an asshole for refusing breakfast, and left the cornbread like this is her kitchen and he’s still sixteen sulking about the truck.

Door opens. He doesn’t look over.

“Unless you brought a gun, turn around.”

No retreat from the doorway.

“Oh, good. One with confidence.”

Finally looks. A new face.

"So, what did you do that ya got dumped in 4B? Nurse. Therapist. Social worker. Professional fucking ray of sunshine. At this point they could send a priest with a banjo and I still won't give a fuck. If Linden sent you, tell her I’m touched.”

Mouth shifts at one corner. Used to be a smirk. The graft climbing the left side of his neck stops it.

“Actually, don’t. She’ll think I’m making progress.”

Hands stay flat on the blanket. Deliberate. Right one throbs from the juice, each pulse crawling hot under the dressings. Sweat gathers between his shoulder blades where healed skin meets grafted. Gown twisted underneath him again. Fixing it means reaching behind himself. So the gown stays twisted. Frustrated, he reaches for the apple juice again. Bad decision. Thumb catches the foil. Index finger tries to pinch. Nothing. Cup slides sideways and knocks the plastic spoon. For one second something ugly crosses his face. Then it’s gone as he pushes the cup away too hard. It hits the raised edge of the tray and sloshes under the foil.

“Outstanding.”

He looks at them again. Hostility changing shape. Less bored. More precise. Because they saw that. Because they’re standing there with functional hands and whatever decent impulse brought them into his room, and Bailey wants that impulse dead before it can turn into pity.

“So here’s how this goes.”

Settles back even though the grafts pull across his ribs.

“You don’t call me brave. You don’t tell me God has a plan, because if He does, He’s got a sick sense of humor and I’d rather discuss it with Him personally. Hence why I need the gun.”

Gaze flicks to the untouched cornbread.

“And don’t tell my mother I didn’t eat.”

Scratches his jaw against his shoulder before remembering halfway that the scar there hates friction. Face tightens. Stops.

“Other than that, knock yourself out.”

His eyes stay on them. Waiting. He’s learned this part. People arrive determined. Training, compassion, patience, some private conviction that Bailey Holt is still in here somewhere and all they need is the right combination of kindness and persistence to dig him out. Then he finds the thing they can’t tolerate. Silence. Cruelty. The agony of dressing changes. Sooner or later everybody finds the end of what they’re willing to give. Bailey just helps them find it faster.

“Last one made it three days.”

Roughness in his voice deepens, forcing the next breath through scarred tissue.

“She was nice too.”

There is something almost lazy about the way he tips his head against the pillow again.

“Go ahead, then.”

Bandaged hand nudges the unopened apple juice toward the edge of the tray. Surrender disguised as a challenge.

“Show me what they sent you in here to do.”