“Are you okay?” he asks.
Absolutely not. “Yeah.”
“I’m going to touch your leg, but I promise I won’t press down. Just tell me if anything hurts.”
“Uh-huh.”
He puts his hands on either side of my leg and my body heats up. His hands move down from my knee to my shin, slowly, his fingers gliding over the hairs of my legs—which are very clearly standing on end. He raises his hands away when he gets near the stitches and my skin feels like it’s trying to reach back out for him. Begging for that touch again. I almost gasp when his fingertips return.
My hands tremble and I clench my fists in an attempt to hide it.
I glance at Jamie, his full attention on my leg. Thank God. At least he doesn’t notice my reaction.
He makes a “hmmph” sound.
“What?” I ask.
“Most of the swelling is at your calf, not your shin.” He takes his hand away and grabs the notebook. I shiver as my body immediatelycools and I wish he was touching me again.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He finds whatever page he’s looking for in the book. “Your... fibula might be broken.” I give him a confused look. “The thinner bone next to the big one that makes up your shin.” He spins the notebook, where there’s a very clearly traced skeleton form with the major bones labeled in Jamie’s mom’s handwriting.
“What does that mean for me?”
“It hopefully won’t need to be reset, because if it does...” He stops and shakes his head. “Let’s just worry about that later. For now, rest, ice, compression.”
Shit. A broken bone and no hospitals to help.
“How long does it take a bone to heal?” I don’t want to know the answer. I’ve never had a broken bone in my life. When I was four, my thirteen-year-old next-door neighbor accidentally hit me in the chin with a baseball bat, and even that didn’t break anything. I do have a gnarly scar on the underside of my chin, though.
And don’t think I haven’t heard all the jokes about taking it to the face! I actually haven’t, and it’s disappointing. Like, it’srightthere, everyone.
Jamie shrugs and says, “I broke my arm when I was ten....”
Ah, I knew he was one of those kids. I try not to smile as I picture the kid from the beach photo in the dining room jumping fences and climbing trees like he’s invincible.
“It took me a little over two months to heal. Maybe six weeks or so for you.”
“Six weeks?”
“It could be less?” he offers. “But, then again, it could be more.”
“Dammit.” I sit back. But what’s this other feeling? Is that relief? It means six more weeks to delay the inevitable. I squeeze the piece of paper in my pocket. Six more weeks to pretend I’m someone else. “What’s today’s date?”
He consults another page of his book, the one a silk ribbon attached to the spine is tucked into. “March... twenty-third.”
I do the math in my head. Six weeks would bring me to the beginning of May. Even mid-May might be safe. My deadline—the last day I know I’ll find the Fosters still in Alexandria—is June 10.
But then I can’t avoid highways. I have to get back on the roads again, themainroads. No more wandering through small towns and woods. I mean, the plus side of that is no more bear traps.
Yay.
And then there’s the risk of running into other people again.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie asks, shaking me from my thoughts. I look up at him, and his face is kind and concerned.
It makes my stomach flip and my chest ache. This kid had been out here by himself for months before I broke in. And now he’s helping me. He’s a better person than I am. Somehow the apocalypse hasn’t changed him like it did me. And everyone else out there, for that matter.
