“King’s End may surprise you one day,” is all she said.
It certainly has.
By the time the tea is ready, Guy has Henry settled on the couch in the office, clean and dry, tucked into a fleece blanket.
“I tried to take him up the stairs,” Guy says, shaking his head with chagrin. “I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“That’s okay. It’s easier if he’s downstairs.” I assess Henry. He’s still far too pale, but his skin is not nearly as gray. I set the tea service on the coffee table and pour a cup.
Guy scoops up the muddy clothes, and as he leaves the room, I call over my shoulder, “Just toss them in the laundry room.”
Then I turn my attention back to Henry, but not before a wave of exhaustion hits me. It’s a good thing Guy didn’t carry Henry upstairs.
“Henry? Can you hear me?”
His breathing is steady and sure. That’s a good sign. With fingertips against the underside of his wrist, I take his pulse and check the feel of his skin. He’s running hot, but when I check for a fever, there is none. So maybe Henry Darnelle always runs hot.
If I had a penlight, I’d check his pupils. He needs more tea, but not if he’s unable to swallow. There’s always the standard issue epi-pens. Not nearly as good as my mother’s tea, but they might get him to the point where he can drink some.
I’m about to ask Guy for a penlight when a better idea occurs to me.
“Agent Darnelle, can you hear me?”
A brief stirring, and something that sounds like a disgruntled sigh.
“Agent Darnelle, this is important.”
A deep intake of breath followed by an exhale. “I … thought … we agreed … on … first … names.”
There he is. I can’t help but smile. “All right, Henry. Can you hear me?”
“Could … the first time.”
I can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or if he’s merely stating fact. I sigh, and I swear his lips twitch in response.
“I’m a terrible patient,” he adds.
“Can you behave long enough to drink some tea?”
It takes Guy to help leverage Henry to a sitting position. The first sips go down rough. The first sips always do. I know that from experience. Once Henry can sit without Guy’s support, I pour myself a cup and drink it down, wincing as I do.
“Is it supposed to be this foul?” Henry stares at the remaining liquid in his cup like a five-year-old staring down a plate of Brussels sprouts.
“It’s the toxins, actually. The worse the hit, the worse this tastes.” I raise my cup. “Once it starts neutralizing things, it won’t be so bad.”
“I’m not quite sure how it could be any worse.”
I want to agree. I want to tell him this is the worst I’ve ever tasted, and that has nothing to do with my inability to cook. Tea, I can make. But I don’t want to mention any of this, not in front of Guy. The Sight, maybe, is keeping me from uttering those words.
“You’re doing better,” Guy observes. “Both of you.”
I look at him, and a wave of gratitude washes over me for this big bear of a man who can’t help but keep tabs on everyone in the neighborhood.
“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t know what—” I’m about to say that I don’t know what I would’ve done without him, but he holds up a finger and then tugs his phone from his pocket.
For one horrible moment, I’m afraid we’ll end up as a thread on Hey Neighbor.
“You would’ve managed, Pansy-Girl. You always do. But.” He taps out a message. “I’m having Milo send over some dinner and maybe a little something for tomorrow morning as well.”
