Something akin to awe.
It’s weird and inappropriate and strangely distressing. He needs to stop.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he says, adjusting his position to get more comfortable. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.”
It’s a lie, and both of us know it, but it’s important for me to say it anyway.
I’mfine. I’ve been fine for two and a half years. And this hot, disturbing stranger isn’t going to change that about me.
After I turn off the lantern and climb back into bed, I say into the darkness, “If you’re up to it, you need to leave in the morning.”
There’s a moment’s pause before he drawls, “All righty then. That’s what I’ll do.”
I get up justbefore dawn and light a single candle, feeling more like myself.
Micah’s eyes are tightly closed. He’s shifting slightly in his sleep. In the flickering light of the candle, his skin looks more flushed than it did yesterday, but that could be an effect of the lighting.
Sleep is probably best for him, so I pull my clothes on quickly, gesture for Molly, and leave the camper.
I use the outhouse and splash some water on me from the rain barrel. I’ve got enough food from the trade in Cleverly that I don’t need to hunt this morning. I do a quick walk through the surrounding woods to make sure everything is as it should be, and then I settle in with my rod to fish in the creek.
I still occasionally get lucky, and fishing requires little energy or focus.
When the sun has risen high enough to dapple sunlight into the clearing, I give up. Time to check on Micah and hopefully get him out of here.
As soon as I open the camper door, Molly rushes inwhimpering. It’s enough to make my heart jump. I hurry to the bed.
Micah is still there. He’s pushed down the blanket to his thighs. His bandage still looks okay, but he’s stirring restlessly. His head tosses on the pillow, and he’s mumbling something incomprehensible in his sleep.
Shit.
This doesn’t look good.
I rest a hand on his forehead and quickly snap it back. He’s hot.
Way too hot.
He’s got a fever.
Shit, shit, shit.
I stand thinking for a minute as Molly snuffles nervously at Micah’s face. Then I go to a small storage compartment above the table/bed and pull out a worn bottle, dumping out two pills onto my hand.
It’s a sacrifice. Giving up some of my small store of Tylenol. But a fever after a gunshot wound is a very bad sign. It might be infected. He could die.
With a glass of water, I take the pills over to the bed. “Micah,” I say sharply. When he doesn’t react, I shake his shoulder until he opens his eyes. “You need to take these.”
I’m not sure if he understands what I’m saying or not, but he lets me lift his head, put the Tylenol in his mouth, and position the glass at his lips so he can take a sip and swallow.
When he gets the pills down, he pulls away from me, as if my presence is annoying him.
I get a washcloth wet and wipe his face and neck with it. He lets me. Relaxes slightly.
So I dampen the cloth again and stroke his skin with it.
After a few minutes, he falls back to sleep.
