“Stop it,” I whisper, climbing up on
the table beside him.
“I’m not—” he starts, and then he
finds the handle of a drawer beneath the stirrups and leans over,
pulls it out to see what’s inside. “Hey, this stuff is
cool.”
“Dylan,” I warn. Without looking at
me, he reaches back and eases a hand up my thigh in an effort to
distract me so he can rummage through the drawer without further
protest. Before he gets too far, though, I knock his hand away.
“You shouldn’t be rooting through their stuff.”
“I’m just looking,” he mumbles,
resting his hand on my knee.
Shanley sets his case down on a nearby
counter and laughs. “Just don’t break anything,” he says, opening
the case. He takes out the lancets again, the hemoscanner, a
handful of cotton swabs. “After you asked me if I was sick—over the
radio, remember?” I nod, slap Dylan’s hand away from me again, it’s
creeping steadily up my leg. Shanley pretends he doesn’t notice and