The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(17)
Chapter Seven
Jaren was allocated work in the tunnels.
It was Tipp who told Kiva; Tipp who had left the infirmary in a hurry upon Kiva’s return that night, hastening back to their shared cell block to make sure Jaren snagged a pallet next to his; Tipp who had whispered Zalindov’s secrets to the newcomer, all the warnings and hints that Kiva had failed to offer.
Kiva told herself that Jaren was just like any other prisoner, that she didn’t want or need Tipp’s frequent updates. With Jaren’s work allocation, there was no way she was going to invest time or energy into getting to know him further, even if she’d wanted to—which she didn’t. She had enough to worry about, and he had a clock ticking down to his death now. Kiva knew the odds: thirty percent of tunnelers didn’t survive their first six weeks, and fifty percent didn’t live longer than three months.
Jaren was a dead man walking.
It was a shame, Kiva supposed, but that was life at Zalindov.
Instead of dwelling on Jaren’s inevitable demise, Kiva found herself grateful that his arrival had given her back her assistant. Tipp hadn’t been reallocated to the kitchens, so he was still helping her in the infirmary with the quarantined patients. She had an inkling that Naari was responsible for his permanent return, though the guard herself hadn’t been assigned to the infirmary since Jaren’s orientation. Kiva almost missed the stoic young woman, especially when Bones or the Butcher was on duty. Sometimes, however, there was no guard, which was an indication that things were getting back to normal at Zalindov. There had been no riots in some time, and while Rooke had claimed that the rebels were a growing problem, they were keeping quiet. For now.
Slowly but surely, the quarantine lifted, the patients who survived their battle with tunnel fever returning to their jobs and those who didn’t being sent to the morgue.
Ten days passed, and Kiva settled back into her routine, caring for prisoners who came and went, while keeping an ear out for anything she might be able to pass along to the Warden. Soon she was too burdened by her workload to give his task more than a passing thought, with winter causing problems for all inmates regardless of their allocations. The outdoor laborers battled hypothermia and frostbite, while the underground workers were hit by a sweating sickness, the water in the tunnels prompting a smorgasbord of bacterial infections.
The growing array of health concerns left Kiva too busy to think about anything—or anyone. But then, eleven days after Jaren’s arrival, just after Tipp took off for dinner, Kiva was finalizing her weekly inventory when a voice spoke from the infirmary doorway.
“I hope I’m not interrupting?”
Kiva whirled around to find Jaren standing there. It was the first time she’d seen him since his orientation.
“You look terrible,” Kiva couldn’t keep from saying as she stood and motioned him inside.
A quiet laugh left Jaren as he moved stiffly toward her. “That’s some bedside manner you have.”
Kiva didn’t deny it. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. I thought for sure I’d be sending you to the morgue by now.”
Another laugh, this one louder. “And the compliments keep coming.”
Kiva didn’t allow herself to feel relieved that not only was he still standing, but he seemed to be in good spirits. He’d lasted nearly a fortnight, which was longer than others could say, especially those allocated to the tunnels.
“What can I do for you, Jaren?”
She realized her mistake immediately, but it was too late for her to go back in time and call him by his identification number. Instead, she ignored his satisfied expression and tapped her foot impatiently.
“Tipp said I should come by and get my stitches taken out.” Jaren scratched his jaw and admitted, “He said ten days, so I’m a day overdue, but yesterday was long and I fell asleep right after dinner.”
He kept all emotion from his voice, an indication that he wasn’t seeking pity or compassion, so Kiva offered neither.
“Have a seat,” she told him, before collecting what she needed from the worktable.
Jaren groaned slightly as he eased himself onto the nearest metal bench, and while Kiva showed no outward reaction, she winced internally, aware of just how hard the tunnelers were made to work. She was surprised Jaren hadn’t come to see her before now to stock up on painkillers and anti-inflammatories. At the very least, a muscle relaxant would have helped, especially during his first few days as he acclimatized to the labor.
“Any problems I should know about?” Kiva asked as she approached. “Itching, swelling, redness?”
Jaren looked amused. “Shouldn’t you have checked in before now to ask about all that?”
“I’m not your mother,” Kiva said. “You’re responsible for your own health in here.”
“There’s that bedside manner again,” Jaren said under his breath.
Kiva acted like she didn’t hear and reached for his left hand. His skin was filthy, highlighting that he’d come straight from the tunnels after his shift had ended. Dirt and grime covered him from head to toe, almost as much as when he’d first arrived at Zalindov, though without the addition of blood this time.
“This has healed well,” Kiva said, inspecting the carved symbol. It had scabbed over, one of the slashed lines already having peeled away to reveal a fresh pink scar beneath.