The smell was distantly familiar; of latex, ammonia and Ethyl Alcohol. It made the visitor's stomach a little weak, and he regretted not having at least a small something to eat. He traversed the polished, faux-apple-wood tile floor, guided by large black signs perfectly placed on the bleach-white walls.

There was no end nor distinction between the number of beeps that resounded about the close-quarter walls. As he turned a corner, a crash-cart was rattling down the other end of the hall. He stopped, well before it would pass him. He watched, like a ghost might, as the men in scrubs and the woman dashed by.

The woman, in an unadulterated smock as white is her fur, save for the stripes, issued her orders clearly:

”Get seventy-five micros of Fentanyl intramuscular, piggyback zero-zero-five milligrams Ativan; set him in bay three, clean his beard in excess of five centimeters from site of injury. I need cranial X-Ray and CT-Scan.”

The others confirmed her instructions as she splintered off, running through a side-door, presumably to prep.

The crash-cart passed and the visitor witnessed a middle-aged man upon the metal bed—or at least that's what his figure would presume. His face had been maimed, his muzzle crushed like an aluminum can. Dark red mixed with the sandy brown of his fur, giving him a look of being dirtied and muddied.

The visitor did not want to look very long, if at all.

And as the cart's rattle held true to the Doppler effect, the visitor once again made his way through quiet hallways, albeit the beeps. His footsteps echoed softly in his ears. Now and again a nurse or attendant would pass into the hall, walk in-line with him or pass him the other way without a word, and then disappear through another door.

He pressed the up button to the elevator. The bell-chime rang almost immediately and the silver door slid away, pocketing in upon itself. The box was empty. He stepped into the long, open area, stopping only a foot or so in. He waited a moment for any other soul to get on board, but when none came he made his selection.

It became more lively as he approached the third-floor desk. The clerk was talking on the phone. Her frizzy hair bounced and bobbed as she nodded her head and giggled with the person on the other line. She had a very wide grin, despite her petite snout, and her rough pink nose was a sharp contrast to her dark, thinly-furred coat.

She hung up a moment after the visitor approached. “Hello, how I can help you?”

”I'm here to see Cassandra?” He spoke, as if he wasn't sure.

”Oh! Right, you're the guy with the funny name—oh! Excuse me, I didn't mean it that way.”

”It's okay,” he smiled, with as best nonchalance he could. “It's a funny name.”

”Well, I was just talking with her earlier and she said she was expecting you today. Please sign in here; and if you don't mind me asking, how do you know Cassandra? She's been a patient of ours for a long time and this is the first time I've heard of you.”

The visitor picked up the pen, rife with disease compared to almost any other object within ten feet He spoke as he scratched the information on the yellow-papered binder presented atop the speckled granite counter-top. ”I'm an old friend of the family. I'm not surprised she hasn't mentioned me, it's been a while since I've talked with them.”

”Well she seems really eager to talk to you now,” the woman spoke emphatically, as if hinting that he should be showing more enthusiasm about his presence to her. “Oh! Hey, Alyssa!” She called to a nurse, passing by; “Could you take this gentlemen to room three thirty-eight, please?”

The guinea-pig nurse smiled. “Sure, come with me handsome.”

The visitor followed the woman as she guided him down the hall. The back of his neck prickled.

”We have to make a little stop before you can see Cassandra,” the woman commented, looking back at him. “I imagine you know what kind of condition she's in?”

”I've heard,” he replied, as he followed into a side-room with a sink.

”Wash up here, all the way to your elbows, and I'll get you a mask.”

The visitor set his hands in front of the infrared sensor to start the sink. The water felt so cold, despite how warm it was. Like a mid-winter's day; melted from the frost off of a window. He sang Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star in his head as he lathered the soap all over his hands, between his fingers, and up to his elbows.

”Here ya go,” the nurse proffered the surgical mask. He wrapped it about his muzzle, and the Velcro crackled as he mashed it together. Just across the hall was the desired room, and the nurse—donning a mask herself—leaned in. She spoke softly, announcing a visitor was there to see her.

She beckoned him in.

”You can go in. She has a check-up in about half an hour, just F-Y-I.”

He stepped through the threshold, and behind him the nurse shut the door so that it was but a few inches ajar.

The room was dominated by white. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. The only respite from such sterility were the maroon-colored medical desks and the light-blue curtains.

The drapes on the window were one-quarter open.

In the center-back of the room, on the bed with an IV floating about the opposite side, was a teen-aged girl. She was a rabbit, thirteen or fourteen. Her lop-ears were swiveled back behind the pillow she was resting on. The color of her fur was a mystery, for she had barely any to speak of.

She gazed at the visitor expectantly; as if he were a ghost only she could see.

”Hello, Cassandra,” he spoke stiltedly, raising a hand in a meager, still wave.

With only a smile, she pointed to a purple-backed chair against the wall of the bathroom.

Hesitantly, he seated.

She began to look away, as if admonishing him for not getting her message. She looked back, the gentle smile still adorned, and lifted her hand once again. She beckoned him closer, and patted the side of her bed in affirmation.

Less hesitantly, the visitor slid the chair across the floor without so much as a gentle scrape.

Yet still the girl had, amidst her quiet closed smile, a bit of dissatisfaction in her gaze.

”Take off your mask.”

The sound of her voice impressed timidity. Yet she spoke assertively, a certain curl to her lips attested she knew exactly what she was saying.

”I don't think that's such a good idea,” the man replied, his mask reflecting only the faintest movements of his mouth.

”I would like to see your face. Please, take off your mask.”

He looked toward the door.

”They can't yell at you; it's my decision.”

He returned to look at the girl, his eyes still reflecting his reservations.

She sighed. “Will you please just take it off for a second? I just want to see your face.”

That apparently satisfied him. He lifted his hands. The Velcro protested as he pried it loose. He pulled the mask away, and let the girl examine him.

She studied his face silently, the smile still present on hers. She leaned closer, the bed creaking as she put all of her weight—of what weight she had—onto the armrest. Finally she nodded with a blink, resting back. Facing forward, with only her near eye upon him, she bid welcome.

“Hello, Kval.”

He couldn't help but state: “You act like that's not the first time you've seen me.”

She shook her head. “Technically it's not. But I know this is the first time you've seen me.” She rested back onto the pillow, raising her arms to put her ears where she liked them. “I saw you in my dreams.”

”Your dreams?” He questioned, replacing his mask.

”Mhmm,” she nodded. “You came to me in my dreams.”

”But I don't even know you.” He reasoned.

”And yet here you are,” the teenager spoke whimsically. She smiled at the man once again, but this time with a less gentle, more wry curve in her lips. “Don't be so surprised. I guess you're not familiar with Cassandra, huh?”

”I'm not familiar with any Cassandra, no,” he admitted. “Not until recently, at least.”

She nodded. “Cassandra was a figure in ancient Greek mythology,” the girl explained. “She was gifted with prophecy by the Oracle Apollo. But she refused to sleep with him, so he cursed her, and made it so no one would ever believe her predictions. She warned the Trojans about the wooden horse, but that didn't stop them from accepting the gift. She sought refuge in the temple of Athena, and there she was raped by Ajax the Lesser. In the play Agamemnon, written by Aeschylus, she goes mad and foresees her own death.”

There was a moment of silence as Kval thought how to respond. Before his thoughts were finalized, his lips acted: “And here when I was your age I hadn't even read Romeo and Juliet”

She giggled. A light, genuine giggle, as if he had just brought her a new stuffed animal for her to cuddle with. “I expected you'd say something like that.”

Even behind his mask, he didn't know if he was supposed to smile.

She stretched. “I can't see the future, by the way.” She admitted. “But, like that Cassandra…” She trailed, and for the first time her face became reserved. The expression lasted only a moment before relaxing, at least mostly. “You're a pediatric psychologist?”

Kval blinked, a few precious seconds to observe her a moment more. “Something like that,” he replied. “I provide counseling for children and teens who are at-risk or… sometimes abused by those who are close to them.” He sat forward, his hands clasped together. “I am mostly there to be someone to talk to and try to help resolve some of the more… extremes in sibling rivalry.”

”So in one word, you're a therapist.”

He nodded.

”I guess you don't really talk to a lot of kids in my position, then, huh?”

He looked out the partly curtained window; the sun was almost set. “I have seen one other child like this. He was much younger, and didn't actually need me.”

”Then why did you see him?”

The question was very direct. She did not ask so much as she was curious, but more that she wanted to understand the meaning of his statement.

He shrugged. “If I didn't, the parents would have gone broke. They were very eccentric, and it was virtually a bribe. That was when I was still just losing the last of my green.”

”How much did they pay you?”

This was curiosity.

”I'm afraid I can't say. Not because I don't want to; it's a legal thing.”

She nodded in understanding, and then her thoughts receded back into her own little bubble.

He watched as she sat quietly, contemplating. She was almost catatonic, save for her breathing and blinking. Otherwise, she was almost lifeless, were it not for the electrocardiograph to prove otherwise.

”However much this visit costs, my dad will pay. And it's not a bribe.”

The psychologist sat up, looking her in the eyes. “That's not necessary.”

She almost looked dejected. “Why not?”

”I make a living because parents lack the ability to understand and manage their kids.” He explained. “When it gets out of control, they call me and I come clean up their mess, give sympathy to the abused and provide stern instructions to the parents and abusers.”

He looked at her once again, observing her. Seeing how she moved so fluidly from being in control to letting things happen; from being extroverted and involved to introverted and reticent so readily.

”However… This is the first time the child has contacted me directly.”

She looked at her hands, as if guiltily or with fault.

He relaxed his gaze, and reached behind him. The Velcro crackled again, and he set the mask in his lap. “Dream or not, I'm here. You wanted to see me; I'll be glad to talk.”

”…I'm not really sure how to say…” She looked away.

He reached out and touched her hand; she looked at him attentively. “Why not answer a question of mine?”

”Okay.” She agreed.

”Tell me how you came to contact me. Did you just put your finger in the phonebook?”

She shook her head and chortled. “No.” She smiled, almost wryly again, as if she had waited for him to ask that very question all along. Her smile relaxed as she began her explanation.

”Before I wound up with…” She motioned at the hospital room, “This, I started exploring around my house. It was summertime, I wasn't really doing anything and… I guess I was just desperate for something fun to do. I went into the attic, imagining I'd find something interesting, like some treasure that was worth a fortune; something hidden and valuable.

”And for a while it was just boxes of junk. But it was weird junk. Old toys, action figures. There was some furniture, too. There was an old dresser filled with old clothes, about my size. I found an old game console, too; there was even still a game inside of it. It was creepy, almost like the stuff was meant for me, if I were a boy.

”Then… I found what I was looking for. I didn't know it at the time, not when I first set eyes on it. It was in a box with other random stuff, like it was put somewhere out-of-place on purpose. A VHS tape—and who uses those anymore? If I hadn't found a player to go with it, I would've been stuck.

”I guess it was a bit dangerous just popping the tape in and hitting play. I mean, it wasn't labeled or anything. It could have been like an old porn-tape or something—and don't give me a weird look. You talk to a lot of kids, I'm sure you know we know about that stuff.

”But it wasn't that at all. It was a boy, about my age. In fact, he was wearing one of the shirts I had seen in the dresser. He was making a movie, using an action figure I saw, too. I watched the twenty-minute tape over and over again, trying to figure out what it was…

”And then, it hit me: I had an older brother.”

The older rabbit gripped the armrest of his chair.

”Please, don't tense,” she said. “I haven't even gotten to answer your question yet. Unless… you want me to stop?”

He shook his head. “No… keep going,” he replied. “This is… interesting.”

She nodded.

”My brother wasn't the only person in the movie. There was another boy, and I heard his name over and over again, and saw his face. It was a weird name, so I remembered it real quick. I couldn't stop there, though—I had to keep searching. I went back into the attic and tore it apart, looking through every box. I found a journal that my brother kept, that only had a few entries in it. I found lots of pictures, of him and mom and dad together, and one with that weird-named boy.

”Then I found the link. It was in a pile of papers nearly three inches thick. It was a group paper, and one of the names along with my brother's was: Kval Alatyrtsev.

”And then, long-story short: Google.”

”After all that work, using Google is like cheating.”

Another genuine laugh, and a kick of the foot. “I know, right? But then… I Googled again and… I found out that that video… was one of the last my brother was in.”

A somber shadow swept the room.

Twilight.

”I actually feel really bad for my parents,” she spoke with a macabre tongue. “They must feel terrible that neither of their kids ever hit sixteen.”

”Please, Cassandra. I don't think—”

”I would be fifteen in two months.” She interrupted. “I was hoping to at least make it that far, but now that the blood transfusions are starting to get weekly…”

She looked at him; his lips were ajar. She understood one of the reasons why he didn't often see children of her type.

”Please don't look like that. I don't mean to sound… that way. It's actually okay. I never really went through those five stages or whatever… at least it doesn't feel like it. I kind of decided I was alright with it almost in the beginning, if anything just to make mom and dad feel better.

”When I asked them about Jameson, it was like they were terrified. Mom freaked out and said she didn't want to hear that name again, and dad told me that he passed away a few years before I was born. But that was it. I didn't want to push it… especially not after… the diagnosis.”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked back at him. He looked very tired and weary, but he had transcended his tension. She took in a breath; and then spoke once again. “Now… my turn to ask a question?”

He rubbed his muzzle with his palm, smearing the skin of his cheeks just about his lips as if he had syrup to clean about his mouth. “Sure,” he replied with a nod, dropping his hand.

”I hope it's not too hard for you,” she pressed, showing sympathy. She wasn't quite sure, at this point in time, who was the therapist and who was the subject. “Would you please, if you can… tell me about him? I just want to know who my brother was. That way, y'know, he's not a total stranger when I meet him?—Sorry.” She apologized as she tried not to chuckle at her macabre reference. She genuinely found it funny, but her visitor might not have found it in good taste.

He sat quietly for a moment, yet. His eyes looked, but he was focused inward, pulling together the sentences that he would say. A part of him was threading them with the tone of his experience, while another was just gathering them up as best he could. But he had to speak before long, for she had waited long enough. He was, in a sense, a medium for her. She could have any wish she wanted, and she picked him as her genie; that wish was his to grant, and his alone. Her parents hadn't the courage to answer the wish. He was the only one left who could try.

”Jimmy was a great friend. He always wanted to hang out, all the time. Always smiled. He never said anything mean or—”

Cassandra turned away. ”I'm sorry, just stop it.” She huffed, and closed her eyes. “If you're going to lie to my face like that, you might as well leave.”

She waited for a moment. She waited to hear the sound of him getting up; maybe he would be relieved that he could go, and not have to deal with the pressure. She would peter out of existence and then he could go on, helping other kids he was more comfortable with. Kids that weren't a countdown.

But when she looked up, he was still there.

”I just…” She tried to speak. “I just wanted you to be honest. I know what he was like, I scoured through all of his stuff—including his stash.”

The rabbit's face seemed to pallor just a little.

”I know he did pot. I know he was a bit crazy and antisocial—his journal talked about how he wanted to kill some kids he didn't like, and that he wished mom and dad actually paid attention to him. I guess they learned something, because they sure as heck paid a lot of attention to me, but they still won't to him. I just want to learn who he really was.

”Please,” she begged, turning to the rabbit, twice her age, with hands clasped together. “Tell me how he really was.”

”Lonely—” The man choked, and then regained composure. “He always wanted to be with someone. I hung out with him a lot—I got him addicted to drugs.”

Cassandra let her hands fall, and lifted her ears; she hung on every word.

”Both our parents were a little the same. Except his just didn't care—mine at least tried. He acted out a lot, got in a bit of trouble at school. He wanted to do things to get noticed, and the bad got noticed a lot more than the good.

”Then… one day, the guy who normally got us our supply went to juvenile detention. He was worried—he used a lot more than I did. He was scared, the drugs helped him… escape, more than anything. I just took them to pass the time. So… I convinced him to get us some drugs. He didn't want to at first, but I talked him into it—because I didn't want to be the one to do it.

”He made me promise him… not to be mean to my little sister. She was still in elementary school back then, but she was a lot like you. She understood things in the way you do—that life isn't always peachy. Especially not when you have an older brother… Well, let's just say I was once called 'Big Bad Brother'.

”He said that if he died 'tomorrow', his parents—your parents—wouldn't even notice. I guess, in a way, you two share a knack for seeing the future. It wasn't quite tomorrow, but the trade happened soon enough. …I was there, on the watch.

”He was nervous, agitated. He'd never done something like that before. He'd done some pretty bad stuff, but this was… 'real,' to him. They argued over the money, him and the dealer, and he kept looking back at me to make sure I was there. That got the dealer angry. Jimmy was shot eight times, and he died right in front of me.”

Cassandra nodded, as if he'd just said the weather was pleasant.

”The news story said he was shot six times.”

”It was wrong,” Kval stated.

She nodded again. “The Coroner's report showed eight markings.” She smiled. “How is she, by the way?”

He was genuinely confused. “…Who?”

”Your sister.”

The pallor went away, at last.

”We're neighbors,” he said, sitting up in his seat. “She's a foster parent. Right now she has six kids, and none of them speak English. She knows a few languages, and she's even learning one right now.” He chuckled. “When she was really little, she could barely say anything with more than three syllables. Now, she can start a sentence in English, finish it in Spanish, and have gone through another language or two in between.”

”It sounds like you kept your promise, then.” Cassandra commented. Her eyes closed in satisfaction, as if she had just finished a wonderful book.

”Of course I have. I'm just sorry it took Jimmy's life… to show me how much one was worth.”

”It's almost time for my checkup.” Cassandra stated.

”Does that mean I need to leave?”

”No… but, you should go home to your sister. I only wanted to learn about Jameson; thank you for doing that for me. I know it wasn't easy.”

”If it's not easy, it's not worth doing.”

”Oh, pah,” she shook her head at the cliché. “But… Kval…” She glanced out the window, the sky reflecting her crepescular attitude. ”I think that… this was meant to happen.”

”Us meeting?”

”Yeah.” She nodded. “Because, I want you to make another promise—to me this time.”

He looked at the wires on his side of the bed and moved them aside, scooting the chair closer so that he sat beside her more closely. He leaned against the armrest. “What will it be?”

”Now that I've heard what you said, I don't think it's a coincidence that my brother and I are… so much alike. I know that, deep down, there's still a little bit of guilt. If you were actually there… and the way you were toward your sister before you changed… Time just buries; it can't heal that, despite what everybody says. But maybe I can.” She set her hand on his, and looked into his eyes. “I forgive you,” she said; “on behalf of my brother. Maybe his death was meant to teach you, to change you. I want mine— …I want to mean something to you, too. You gave me closure, so let me give it back to you. Close your eyes.”

She watched, until he did so. She squeezed his hands.

”Relax. Find all of it—all of that pain, guilt, sorrow, grief and regret. I know it might be buried really deep, but try. Find it, and give it to me. I'll take it with me… when I go… okay? You shouldn't have to hold onto it anymore.”

She felt his hand tremble. She heard him stifle a quivering breath. She saw a single tear fall from the far corner of his right eye.

”Are you… sure?”

The only response was another squeeze.

He opened his eyes, looking directly into hers.

She blinked, and nodded. He let go of her, and then looked lost for just a moment. Like he had just woken up from a dream, he looked about, getting his bearings once again.

He spotted the mask upon his lap.

She watched as he pulled it about his face, the crinkle of the Velcro a sound of finality.

”Thank you,” he said.

She leaned forward, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You're welcome.”

He patted his knee, and stood up. He looked about again, noticing, as if for the first time, just how white and sterile the room was.

The blue drapes, three-quarters closed.

He returned the chair back to where it was, and then looked at Cassandra one last time, to forever remember her as best he could.

Quietly, he left the room, passing the nurse, Alyssa, on the way out.

”Okay, Cass, let's see how you're doin'.”