Choo Choo, Here Comes the Train of Your Annoyance

Morgan

The work here was a lesson in itself. With every patient I attended, with every wound I cleaned and bound, I felt my understanding of the human body and the healing arts expand. Though I would never dare call myself a doctor, the pure, unadulterated gratification that came from hard work and seeing another person recover through my efforts was an exhilarating sensation. As much as I cherished my friends and family, there was something profound about earning the sincere gratitude of complete strangers, a reward for my own labor. This wasn't a position my parents had secured for me, nor was it a place Natalia or my siblings had helped me find. I was here on my own merits, learning the solemn craft of saving lives.

This morning, a cheerful bounce had animated my steps as I left my modest home, the air inside still fragrant with the scent of freshly cut pine. The grateful families of those I had aided had built me this small, sturdy cottage, a privilege I held dear.

My happy gait faltered, however, and I nearly stumbled as the memory of the previous day crashed over me with the force of a physical blow. Yesterday, after successfully treating Emilia and Delara, a little girl had been brought in. She had been playing with her father’s woodworking tools, and her legs were grievously injured. Despite my best efforts, despite applying compress after compress, I could not stanch the bleeding. She had died in my arms.

She was the first patient I had ever lost. Everyone told me I had done everything I could, but a hard, cold voice in the recesses of my mind insisted otherwise. In the hollow aftermath, as my grief-numbed mind replayed the scene, a terrible solution presented itself. I could have cauterized the wounds. I could have taken a heated blade and seared the flesh shut. The agony would have been unimaginable—a howling, white-hot torment—but she would have lived. The weight of knowing a life was lost under your care, that your own failure and lack of courage sealed their fate, is a burden too heavy for most to comprehend. After my mother passed, I’d clipped a single lock of her soft, brown hair and sealed it within a small glass vial. That bottle, a somber reminder that no matter how much I learned, I could not save everyone, now sat on a shelf in my tiny home. This morning, I hadn't been able to bring myself to look at it.

Shaking off the memory, I walked into my hospital—a name I had finally persuaded the locals to use instead of "the sick house"—and began my morning rounds. Many patients were recovering with incredible speed, yet I always wished I could do more, that I could simply prescribe a remedy and watch them walk away completely healed. My knowledge was a patchwork quilt, woven from my parents’ strong belief in natural medicine and the focus I had applied to my high school science courses.

The hospital door creaked open, admitting a barrel-chested man with brown hair, brown eyes, and a complexion darkened by the sun. I frowned, noting he bore no visible injuries. He strode with purpose toward Jakob, one of my volunteers, who was gently helping an elderly patient sit up. The man seized Jakob by the arm.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded, marching over to them. "You can't just come in here and accost my volunteers!"

The man glanced at me, his expression one of pure disdain. "This does not concern you, little girl."

"It's too late for that," I retorted, planting my hands on my hips. "I'm already involved." Jakob struggled against the man's iron grip. "Now, tell me what you think you're doing!"

"By order of the standing lord of this land," the man announced gruffly, "the 'Miracle Worker' who has been aiding the people of this town is to come to the lord's home immediately to attend a patient."

Jakob's eyes widened. "But I'm not the Miracle Worker! Honestly! I've just been helping out."

The man released Jakob, his icy gaze sweeping over my other three male volunteers. Sexist pig. "Then," he grumbled, "which one of you is it?"

"I am," I declared, my voice ringing with a conviction I didn't entirely feel.

The man—a soldier, I now presumed—scowled at me. "Stay out of this, girl. Did your parents not teach you it is wrong to lie?"

His condescension made me clench my jaw, a habit I knew I needed to break.

"She's not lying!" The cry came from all my volunteers at once. "She is the Miracle Worker!"

The soldier’s heavy-set features registered the information slowly. Then, leaving Jakob, he seized my arm. The sheer audacity of it! I did not appreciate being manhandled. He could have simply asked!

"Come on, girl," he grumbled, already dragging me toward the door. "We have to hurry."

Natalia

With each step we took away from that dining hall, I felt a piece of myself returning. The air seemed lighter, easier to breathe, and the suffocating weight on my chest began to lift. I would not, could not, ever go back into that room. Even standing outside its doors, my mind had run wild, painting phantom bloodstains over the elegant woodwork. I could see the bodies; I could see the woman’s cold, triumphant smile. I despised that room with every fiber of my being, and in that moment, I knew Viktor would never be able to force me back inside.

Our entrance into the kitchens brought the bustling activity to a screeching halt. The staff, caught mid-stir and mid-chop, stared at us as if we were apparitions. Then, as their eyes settled on Viktor, their astonishment curdled into outright terror. They probably thought he was about to execute them for adding too much salt to the soup. They all stood frozen, a tableau of fear. When Viktor and I took a seat at the large, flour-dusted kitchen table, you could practically feel their confusion warring with their horror.

"Could someone please bring me some fruit?" I asked, my tone deliberately gentle and kind.

My request seemed to break the spell. Still bewildered and terrified, but at least assured that a massacre was not imminent, the staff jolted back into motion. A small boy with wide, anxious eyes brought me a bowl brimming with fresh fruit, and I began to eat. I risked a glance at Viktor. I don't think I had ever seen him look so thoroughly uncomfortable and out of place. He looked like a wolf that had accidentally wandered into a sheep pen. An idea sparked, and I reached up, holding a fat, red strawberry out to him.

"Open up wide for the train!" I teased, my voice lilting.

He recognized the condescending tone, even if he had no earthly idea what a train was. I was speaking to him as one would a small child. A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, but the absurdity of the situation was too delicious to resist. "Come on," I coaxed, wiggling the strawberry. "Eat it."

He snatched the fruit from my fingers and bit into it with a sullen crunch.

"Choo! Choo!" I chirped, and then dissolved into laughter.

I couldn't stop, even as the kitchen staff stared at me as if I'd grown a second head. It was just too funny.

"What is a 'train'?" he demanded, the word sounding foreign and ridiculous on his tongue.

"Well," I began, using a grand hand gesture for emphasis, "it's like this enormous metal vehicle, but it moves without horses. It’s at least ten times faster than your swiftest horse, though it can only travel back and forth on a special track made of metal rails, and it has dozens of separate compartments for people to sit in."

His tone was deadpan. "And the 'choo choo'?"

That was it. I lost control completely, howling with breathless, tear-streaming laughter. This was priceless.

"It's… it's the sound humans say trains make," I finally choked out between gasps. Viktor's glower intensified to the point I thought his face might crack; he had to have realized the full extent of his humiliation.

"What is so funny?" he pressed.

"Nothing," I gasped, wiping a tear from my eye. He didn't believe me for a second. Then again, nobody ever did.

We finished our breakfast in a remarkably subdued silence. As we were walking out of the cozy, aromatic kitchens, a thought occurred to me.

"Hey, Viktor?" I asked. He paused and turned to face me.

"Yes?"

"Does the general public know what you look like?"

He considered the question. "No," he murmured. A wide grin spread across my face. I knew exactly what we were going to do tomorrow. His uncle was visiting today, but he wouldn't be here forever. This was going to be fun.

For the next hour or so, we swam in the estate's private lake, just as we had before. It was a lovely escape, particularly after I mastered the art of cupping my hands to shoot a stream of water directly into his unimpressed face. It was, without a doubt, fantastic.