Skeeter crossed the bathroom, flexing a slightly strained shoulder, and peered into the open stall. Bergitta had clutched one side of her face, which was already swollen and turning purple. The simple dress she wore was torn. Anger started a slow burn as he gazed down at his terrified friend. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.
She nodded. Then burst into tears and slid to the tiled floor, trembling so violently he could hear the scrape of her identification bracelet—a gift from the Found Ones—against the wall. Skeeter bit his lip. Then sighed and waded in to try and pick up the shattered pieces. He crouched beside her, gently brushed back Bergitta’s hair, a glorious, platinum blond, thick and shining where the lights overhead touched it.
“Shh,” he whispered, “he’s gone now. You’re safe, shh . . .” When she’d stopped crying, he said gently, “Bergitta, let’s take you down to the infirmary.”
She shook her head. “No, Skeeter, there is no money . . .”
Skeeter held out the cash he’d liberated. “Yes, there is. And I’ve got some money put aside, too, so don’t you worry about that, okay?” He’d been saving that cash for his rent, but what the hell, he could always sleep in the Found Ones’ council chamber down in the station’s sub-basement until he could afford to rent another apartment.
Bergitta was crying again, very quietly and very messily down her bruised face. Skeeter retrieved a towel from his push cart and dried her cheeks, then helped her to her feet. When she wobbled, shaking violently, Skeeter simply picked her up and carried her. She clung to his shoulders and hid her face from the curious onlookers they passed. When he carried her into the infirmary, Rachel Eisenstein was just stepping out of her office.