5
He hasthe fever all day. No getting rid of him yet.
I hover around the camper, cooling him down, giving him Tylenol, and trying to make him drink water. I do some fiddling in my garden, but otherwise I don’t accomplish anything except trying to keep Micah alive.
His fever gets higher in the afternoon. For an hour or two, he’s talking loudly in his sleep. Most of it makes no sense, but he’s still consumed with babbles about Bunny. At one point, I’m dozing on the lounge when he sits up straight, yelling out, “Bunny! Bunny!”
There’s nothing I can do but try to settle and cool him down. It’s a wretched day overall. I barely eat because I feel sick to my stomach. I hate everything about it, and more than once I wonder if I should just stop fussing over him.
If he dies, he dies. I don’t even know this man, and hisinjury and fever are neither my fault nor my responsibility.
I just want it over.
I want to go back to how I was yesterday. Safe and quiet and entirely alone.
It’s evening—getting close to dusk—when the fever finally breaks for real.
He’s been sleeping, and Molly and I have taken a short walk. When I return to check on him, his skin is cool and his breathing is slow and even.
The rush of relief I feel is overwhelming. I’m a little shaky as I pull the blanket back to check his bandages.
Before I can withdraw my hands, one of his comes up abruptly to grip my wrist. “What’s happenin’?” he asks brusquely.
He sounds sharp. Fully alert.
“You had a fever all day, but it’s finally broken. I really need to change your bandages if you’re up to it.”
“Sure.” His eyelids make some weird twitches, like he’s trying to pry them open. Then he does. “Sorry you couldn’t get rid of me today.”
I shrug. “Well, the fever wasn’t your fault. Hopefully it’s not the start of a long infection.”
“I feel fine right now ’cept for the damn bullet hole.” He groans softly as he lifts his arms to cross behind his head, giving me access to his body. “And I’m starvin’ to death.”
“I’ll get you something to eat once I do this.”
I’m careful as I peel back the bandages. The wound looks better than I feared. There’s no sign of infection or even unusual inflammation. The skin is already starting to scab over slightly.
“This doesn’t look too bad.”
“It feels better than yesterday.”
“Okay good.” I clean the wound quickly and wrap it back up again. Then I pull up the blanket and help him prop up on the pillows so he can eat.
I make us both sandwiches, realizing I’m suddenly hungry too. Molly gets bites from each of us, and I feel better than I have all day.
I goto bed shortly after dark like normal. There’s simply no reason to stay up late when there’s little light and absolutely nothing to do.
Micah has been quiet this evening, but he definitely looks better. I’m hopeful again. That he’ll be strong enough to leave tomorrow.
We’re both lying in bed in the dark when I ask into the silence, “Who shot you?”
There’s a slight pause before he answers with a lot of gravel in his throat, “Militia types. Just outside the edge of the Wild. They got a place?—”
“I know who they are.” My stomach makes a weird clench. “I know where they’re holed up.”
“Run into them before, have you?”
“My brothers both joined up with them. After our folks died.”
