The Pure Cold Light by Gregory Frost

hallucinations had left her. So had the hunger that had been a craving earlier. Maybe it was an effect of the drug. Awareness of the implications of that dripped like a distilling liquid into her consciousness—a gauzy memory of his babbling, of the little bulb-shaped gun pressed against her head, and then a fire, a flame, searing her brain.
    She sat up and wildly kicked the covers back. In the dimness she counted her fingers, her toes, rubbed her good hand over the hair on her legs—everything in order, everything still there. Someone had washed her.
    “There a rat in the bed?” Glimet asked. “They get in there sometimes, ’cause it—”
    “God damn you, you crazy fucking Orbiter! What you think I am? You think I want to be like you? There’s hardly any of you left—you got a piece of a smile and a nose and an eye. Where’s the rest of you, huh? You don’t even know!”
    As she berated him, a huge tear welled up in his eye, then spilled down his cheek. The tear clung to his invisible chin a moment before it dripped into his lap. He made a tiny mewling sound.
    She fell silent, gaping. No man had ever behaved like that in front of her. Usually they hauled off and smacked her if she got mad at them. This was more like the response she would have expected from a little kid. “Hey,” she said more gently, “c’mon, don’t be that way. Glimet? Goddam, Glimet, stop.”
    He wiped a wad of the cloak across his cheek. For a second it masked his incompleteness, and gave a sense of a whole face, unutterably sad and lost. “I was—was just … I knew you’d want to see, because you’d like it once you did.”
    “Sure.” What she saw was the atomizer in among the blankets. She reached for it. A stabbing pain gouged her side. The wound—she’d forgotten the knife attack. She checked herself out. Even in the low yellowish light her breast looked bad. He’d set the arm well enough but all he’d been able to do for the gash under her tit had been to sop up the blood. The line where crazy Jack slashed had crusted up and was tufted with bits of cotton. It was seeping. When she pulled up at her nipple to get a better look, the abrupt pain made her stop. “Infected,” she said.
    “That’s why I went to get you medicine,” he explained, sniffling.
    “Where is it, then? That’s not any fucking medicine.” She slapped the atomizer away. He made a grab for it, whining, scooping it up into his cloak.
    “I t-told you, I couldn’t get any medicine because the people from above’s come down after you.”
    She nodded, remembering enough. “No way there’s anybody wants me back up there. Better have another guess.” She glanced around, taking in the tiny room as if for the first time. “You got any smokes here?”
    Sluggishly he rose up and hauled himself over to the little rack beneath the barred window. He looked like a jack-o’-lantern set on top of a sheet to scare kids, she thought.
    At the juvey center where she’d been deposited on her fourth birthday, they’d carved pumpkins and stuck ’em on sheets like that. A grower from Ceebco-Jersey had sneaked a cartload in off the Vine Street docks. Just that one time. She’d forgotten all about it till now.
    Glimet sat down beside her and offered her an open tin. It held two real cigarettes and a collection of discarded butts. She looked into his blue puppy-dog eye, then took one of the longer butts. He turned to put the tin away. She crawled over to the nearest candle, then balanced upright on her knees to light it.
    The first puff tasted ten years old and as wonderful as a fuck. She hauled it deep in her lungs.
    “You got beautiful skin,” Glimet said.
    She craned her head, looking at him, then at her own naked ass and legs. She said, “Well, Glimet, at least I got some,” and laughed even though it hurt. His expression clouded up and she thought he was going to cry again. She quickly asked, “What about the medicine?”
    “I brought you clothes,” he