“She’s not breathing!” Anon clutched Fang’s lifeless body by the shoulder, shaking her. Her drooping tongue waggled from the side of her snout, one glassy eye half open in a dull, vacant stare. Naser pushed Anon aside. He hinged open Fang’s beak and looked down her gullet. No visible obstructions. He pressed an index and middle finger against her throat. No pulse. He rolled her onto her back and pushed his hands into her breastbone, bearing his weight down on her chest in quick, hard pumps. “Take over.” Naser grabbed Anon and forced his hands on top of each other upon Fang’s chest. “Go!” He urged, releasing Anon’s wrists. Anon started with shallow, weak compressions from the elbow. “Push as hard as you can, damn you. Keep your arms straight and push your body into it. Don’t stop!” Naser hung a bag of polygeline from the IV stand and prepared an intravenous infusion. He plugged the IV pump into a power outlet, the pumping mechanism powered on with a high-pitched beep. Ripping open a sealed skin preparation swab with his teeth, he rotated Fang’s closest wrist towards him to disinfect the interior of her arm. Faded track marks trailed the inside of her featherless elbow. Naser resisted a sudden irrational impulse to smash the IV stand against the wall. He released her wrist and placed his hand under Fang’s jaw, tilting her head. After rubbing the swab along the side of her throat, he tossed it away to reach for the catheter. He pressed its wide-bore needle against her skin, and between Anon’s compressions, slid it into her jugular vein, blood filling the catheters flashback chamber. Naser pressed a few buttons on the infusion pump and the tubes of the IV system began to fill with fluid. He mopped cold sweat from her neck with the edge of a pillow and pinned the catheter down with layers of adhesive dressing and tape. Anon struggled with exhaustion, gasping with each sluggish downward thrust, sweat dripping from his face. Naser tapped him on the shoulder. “Shift over.” Anon stumbled to the side and crumpled, cross-legged, to the floor. His skeletal chest heaved as he gulped for air. Naser performed CPR on Fang’s limp body with cold detachment, soothed by the simple, repetitive action. How many minutes had it been since Fang went into cardiac arrest? He guessed four, maybe five. The longest he had ever performed CPR on a person was during his intern year, an hour doing CPR by himself in that overcrowded, understaffed hellhole. The casualty was a raptor woman in her early forties. He had resuscitated her, too. She was in a coma afterwards, stayed that way for a week before the hospital pulled the plug on her, as was policy at the time. He imagined pushing a comatose Fang around the house in Naomi’s office chair. Showing her his family photos, watching tv with her, talking to her about everything he had been up to all these years. Silly stuff. If she ever woke from a coma she would probably have brain damage. Naomi would have to step in and help, of course. Naser couldn’t take care of an intellectually impaired Fang alone. Plus, Naomi is a woman, better for Fang’s dignity if Naomi bathed her. Maybe together they could rehabilitate Fang to the point where she was capable of a relatively normal life. Would he tell Mom? No, at least, not right away. Eventually. Dad? No way. That old hard-ass would figure it out and have her arrested for murder even if she was a vegetable. Mom would have to keep it a secret. Chances are she’ll die. No coma, just dead. He would have to keep her body in the house until the middle of a moonless night, then go out in the dark with a shovel, no flashlight or he’d be seen by an estate security patrol. Naomi would ask about the upturned earth, so he’d have to pick a nice spot to grow flowers. It's a flowerbed, he would tell Naomi. Fang would probably like that, to be food for flowers, to bloom into something beautiful. He felt something grip his arm. It was Anon, his face a mingled expression of relief and concern. “You can stop.” He said. “She’s breathing again.” Naser lifted his hands and watched Fang's chest rise and fall on its own in short, quick inhalations. Something trickled down his cheek. He touched his face and looked at his wet fingers. I was crying, he realised. Raptor Jesus help me. Sniffing, he walked around the side of the bed to open the door of a built-in wardrobe. Taking a duvet from a shelf, he spread it out over Fang. He tucked it under her chin and under sides, wrapping her like a cocoon. “I’ll be down the hall again,” Naser croaked to Anon. He cleared his throat, “won’t be long.” *** Naser blew his nostrils into a tissue, standing in the middle of the medical closet with the door closed. I am losing it, he thought, it’s too much. He picked up a bag of saline and looked at it. His shoulders sagged. She could be topped up with saline, but that alone wasn’t enough. What she needed was a blood transfusion an hour ago. Buried somewhere under all this crap was a portable blood mixer. The state had run a blood drive last year, not long after he had opened his practice. Every clinic in town received one by courier. His clinic had several stationary models that could separate blood so the portable one went- Getting down on his knees, he peered under the bottom shelf. There it was, in the corner, still fresh in the box it had shipped in. He reached for it with both arms and dragged it over. Lifting the box, he was reassured by its heft. He popped open the lid. Inside was the mixer, still wrapped in plastic. *** He dumped the box, a pressure cuff and a couple of blood bags on the nightstand. Anon watched him unpack the mixing unit from the other side of the bed where he sat beside Fang. “I’ll be with Fang for a while.” Naser nodded his head towards the door. “Go get yourself something to eat from the kitchen, help yourself to whatever.” He looked with disdain at Anon’s grimy fingers. “Wash your hands first, there’s grit soap in the butler’s pantry.” Naser placed the mixer on the floor and pulled the office chair over. Those track marks up and down her arm, he had an inkling Fang would become a junky. He remembered saying as much to Anon, during the final semester of high school. He wiped alcohol along the inside of his elbow. He felt angry, thinking about it. Partially at Fang but mostly at himself. If he had known the right things to do and the right things to say when she was still around, maybe he wouldn’t have pushed her out of his life and into… Into whatever the hell she’s got going on now. He never imagined she would murder anyone, that’s an unexpected extreme. Naser inserted a needle into the median cubital vein of his left arm. Blood flowed from the needle and through a transparent tube into a blood bag Naser had set in the mixer’s cradle. As he leaned over to press its on switch, he noticed a wallet poking out of Fang’s nasty faux-leather trench coat. Staring at the coat, he clicked the switch and the cradle began to rock gently, back and forth, mixing his blood with anticoagulant. Naser grabbed the coat by the skirt and gave it a vigorous shake, its content spilling out of the coat pockets, onto the bedroom floor. A wallet, a mobile phone, a densely populated keyring, five bullets, a crumpled back of cigarettes, and a silver cigarette lighter. He scooped up the bullets and shoved them in his hip pocket with the others. He was amassing quite the collection. He dissected the wallet. It was a bulky, ratty looking thing made of black vinyl, a winged ptero skull embossed on one corner. It overflowed with plastic cards and a few notes of cash, the new kind with Kanyesaurus printed on them. Naser slid one of the cards out and scrutinised it. It was a Volcadera state drivers licence with a picture of Fang’s smirking face, but the name on the card read Jennifer Martinez. Maybe she changed her name and got married? He speculated. But then he noticed the date of birth. The day, the month and the year were all wrong. He checked another card. It too was a drivers licence, this one from a different state. It also had a photo of Fang, but this time with a man's name and another completely different birth date. He checked another card, and another. More drivers licences, all from different states. Different names, different genders, different birth dates, different addresses. Naser looked through them all. The only consistency between them was that they each had a photo of Fang smirking, or snarling, or flipping the bird. There were a few credit cards in the wallet, too; different banks, different names. He tossed the cards and wallet against the wall. The oversized key ring was packed with a variety of keys in different shapes and sizes. Naser flipped through them, no two alike. He picked up the lighter and rotated it in the palm of his hand. On one side was a black switch. Next to it, a symbol of a dagger, scratched into its smooth aluminium surface. He gave it an experimental flick. To his surprise a blade sprung from the lighter with a sharp snap. Ah, he thought, that explains it. He gave Fang the side-eye and flicked the switch again. The blade retracted. He shoved the switchblade in his pocket to keep the bullets company. “Man, Naser, you have some food.” Muffled Anon through a chicken drumstick as he bumbled into the room carrying a large tupperware bowl piled with breakfast cereal. He sat down on the corner of the bed, opposite Fang. Resting the bowl on his lap, he clasped the chicken bone and shook it at Naser. “Real meat, Naser. Real meat.” Anon took a bite and with an audible ‘mmm’, he closed his eyes, chewing with enthusiasm. “I haven’t had actual rotisserie chicken in so long, you have no idea.” He mumbled around a mouthful of masticated chicken flesh. He consumed the drumstick in three bites before dunking the bone into the bowl and digging into the cereal. “What you doing over there?” He asked between mouthfuls, gazing at the tube sticking out Naser’s arm. “Giving blood to Fang.” Replied Naser, checking out the front and back of Fang’s phone. “Oh, damn.” Anon remarked. “What blood type are you, do you match?” “I’m O negative, universal donor.” Naser tapped at the phone. The lock screen had a picture of a bright, smiling teenaged Fang pressing her cheek against Anon’s. They were out the front of Uncle Moe’s old pizza place in Little Troodon, her arm wrapped around his waist and a wing draped over his shoulder. They looked so young, Fang in her punk outfit with the stompers and halter top, Anon in his green jacket. He wondered who had taken the photo. “Hm, I figured you would be more of a blood type B.” Anon slurped milk from the mixing bowl, cupping it with both hands. Naser looked at Anon. “What do you mean?” “Like Dr. Namaru Tokikuro, you know, from the Doki Doki Desu trilogy…” He trailed off. “Nevermind.” “Riiight… When was this photo taken?” Naser held the phone up to Anon. “Oh, Fang’s phone? Reed took the photo the night Fang played at Moe’s, ancient history. Crazy she’s got that as her wallpaper with what happened, the break-up and everything.” “Can you unlock her phone? You called me from it earlier.” “I don’t know Naser, she wouldn’t like us snooping around her private business.” Naser had an urge to go over there and give Anon a slap. “I couldn’t give a shit if she doesn’t like it.” He hissed. “I haven’t seen her for fuck knows how long and everything about this situation is weird. Can you get into her phone or not?” He shook it at Anon. “Alright!” Anon conceded. “She unlocked it before getting me to call you, but I’ll try.” Anon rested the bowl on the TV cabinet and took the phone from him. Looking at his watch, Naser calculated the time it had been since he applied the tourniquet around Fang’s leg. He switched off the mixer and pulled the needle from his arm. “Are you able to get into the phone?” Anon, hunched over with his thumb hanging above the screen, did not reply. Naser hung the blood bag next to the polygeline, now half drained. He connected it to a catheter lumen and checked Fang's blood pressure, adjusting the flow from the IV pump accordingly. “Anon?” “I think I got it.” Anon tapped the screen. “It’s the same passcode she had since high school.” Anon passed the phone back to Naser. “She gave you her passcode? What was it?” “I, ah… Yeah. It’s the number one. That’s it.” Typical Fang. He scrolled through the photo gallery, trying to trace where she had been since he last saw her. Most of the photos were of places and faces Naser did not recognise. Snow-capped mountain peaks. Bar interiors. Selfies with different human men. A flatbed truck with empty cages on the back. A t-rex in national guard uniform lying on the ground with their teeth smashed out, surrounded by a pool of blood. An acoustic guitar behind a shop window- Naser scrolled back a photo to reaffirm what he had seen. It was taken a little over three months ago, according to the time stamp. Why would she take a photo of something like that? He thought. What’s the point? More photos. Police station exteriors. Sallow-faced skinnies behind bars like chimps in a zoo. Desolate Volcadera suburbs. Naser getting into his luxury sports car from across a street. Finally, a burning police van with a charred body hanging out a shattered passenger window. “Are you going to turn her in?” Asked Anon, watching over Naser’s shoulder. The question surprised Naser, the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. It made him feel ill. “I can’t-” his words caught in his throat. “I couldn’t do that.” He browsed through her instant messages. A majority of them were from people Naser did not know, but he did recognise the names on the most recent ones, no more than a week old. Trish and Reed, Fang’s loser friends from high school. He hadn’t seen either of them since graduation. Bad influences, the pair of them. A manipulative shrew and an ineffectual druggy, quite the combo. It pissed him off that Fang had been in contact with these two assholes without saying a single word to her family. Trish March 16th, 2031 (18:33:01) Reed said you’re back in town, let’s catch up. I can help. March 18th, 2031 (07:12:33) Please call me. I’m sorry. He checked Reed’s messages. His first message had a photo attachment; Fang’s phone wallpaper. Reed March 17th, 2031 (23:48:21) did u speak 2 naser? (00:05:45) Not yet (00:06:05) dude srsly March 21st, 2031 (17:05:12) gud luck *** The first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a faint pink glow on a bedroom that now resembled a ghetto operating theatre. Naser was thankful that Fang had not gained consciousness during the procedure, he tried not to think of how she would have reacted, waking up in the middle of surgery without anaesthetic. It surprised Naser that Anon hadn’t been completely useless during the entire thing. His face had been ashen throughout, but he did what he was told without complaint. “You’re not going to stitch her leg up?” Anon asked as Naser dressed Fang’s thigh, his voice muffled by a surgical face mask. Naser shook his head. “Give it a few days, we’ll seal her up after swelling subsides. Let’s hope a nasty infection doesn't take hold, given that we did vascular surgery in my guest room with home sterilised instruments, in addition to your attempt at first-aid involving a filthy t-shirt.” “I didn’t know what else to do,” Anon protested, “it’s not like we had a first-aid kit lying around.” “It’s okay. You did your best.” It could have been a lot worse. She got off lightly with a ruptured saphenous vein. That she didn’t die from exsanguination in the first hour with Anon’s inadequate first-aid was testament to that, she would have bled out in the fraction of the time if it had been a major artery. The bullet had been fired from close range, judging by the speckled tattoo of burnt skin around the abrasion collar and the bullets' near straight trajectory, right through Fang’s thigh. She must have been no more than three feet from the point of origin. Despite the otherwise clean shot, a significant amount of subcutaneous fat around the exit wound had to be excised. He had no doubt that it would leave an ugly scar on the posterior side of her thigh. Naser gazed at Fang with the tubes and wires attached to her, heart monitor beeping away in the background. She still looked awful, but the colour of her face was no longer a deathly pallor and her breathing was slow, steady and regular. A picture of health compared to how she was when she got into his car. Her grip on the revolver had loosened, too. He reached over and plucked it from the palm of her hand. He held the gun, feeling the weight of it. He realised with a start that he was holding a murder weapon. Are you going to turn her in? Anon had asked him. Naser entertained the idea of calling the cops and describing to them in detail what had happened that night. A quick trial followed by a public execution and that would be the end of her. “Jesus Raptor Goddamn fucking Christ!” Naser shouted in sudden fury, gesticulating wildly in the air, waving the gun around. “Why did you have to come back, Fang? Why did you have to come back like this?!" “Holy shit!” Anon said, his arms reaching out. “Calm down, man.” “Goddamn it…” Naser felt his anger drain as suddenly as it had arrived, nausea filling the void it left behind. He put the gun down on the nightstand and removed his disposable surgical gown, mask and gloves, dropping them into a garbage bag. Collapsing onto Naomi’s office chair, he folded into a brace position with his hands behind his head, elbows on his knees. He could not remember ever feeling this emotionally and physically drained. “Naser?” “Yeah.” Naser murmured. “Are you okay?” What kind of question is that? Thought Naser. It’s obvious how I’m feeling. “No, Anon, I feel like shit. My sibling is back in my life from out of no-where, almost dying from a gunshot she took while murdering cops. I don’t know what sort of person she has become, but I think she might be a monster and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault.” “Ah jeez. Naser...” Anon sighed and sat on the floor. He pulled off his surgical gloves and dragged the mask from his face and another off his beard. “You’re being retarded. Fang turning out the way she did, it’s not your fault.” “Yeah, I know. I know.” “It’s mine.”