He puts his hand against my forehead, frowning as he checks my temperature. “You do feel kind of hot. I hope you don’t get a fever.”
“I don’t think it’s a fever. I’m just hot.”
“Okay.” He looks at me for a minute before he puts aside his worries about my health. “While you’re awake, you might as well eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But you should eat something anyway. I noticed you had some canned soup in one of your cabinets. Why don’t I heat that up?”
Soup sounds hot, but at least it’s food I’ll probably be able to get down. I’m really not feeling good at all. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
He heats it up on the firepit outside and brings back a tall mug full of thinned-out chicken-noodle soup.
I do my best because he’s watching and because I can sense he’s going to be pushy about this. I manage to swallow down about half of it before it’s simply too exhausting to manage.
He must be satisfied with my attempts because he doesn’t complain. He eats the rest of the soup himself—gulping it down like it’s a drink—and then disappears to get the camp ready for the night.
An hour later, Molly takes a leap into the camper and then another leap onto my bed, settling herself in a ball near my feet. Micah follows her in, feeling my forehead before he asks, “You need to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah.” I sigh since the effort sounds monumental. “I better pee.”
He helps me up and then outside and then over to the outhouse. Fortunately, I’m stable enough to handle the peeing part on my own. Then I wash my hands and face in a rain barrel before he assists me back inside and into bed.
I collapse with such an impact that Molly lifts her head to peer at me in surprise.
“Sorry, girl. It’s just been a day.”
“It sure has. Try to get some sleep. Hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”
I sure hope he’s right.
I don’t feel betterthe next day.
I feel worse.
Being me, I pretend otherwise, assuring Micah I’m fine and getting up to wash, go to the bathroom, and stretch my legs.
I have very little energy, however, and I still feel that restless discomfort all through my body. I could deal with the wound pain without too much trouble. It’s that low-level, more pervasive feeling that’s holding me down.
Micah tries to get me to go back to bed, but lying in bed another minute sounds miserable. Instead, I go to the creek and sit on the lawn chair he carries over while he fishes.
I do okay until lunch, when I eat half a sandwich and gulp down two glasses of water. After that, I barely have the energy to hold myself upright, so I consent to Micah’s insistence that I get back into bed for a few hours.
Although I go to sleep almost immediately, it’s not a good sleep. Or a comfortable or restful one.
I feel vaguely conscious of being asleep and uncomfortable the entire time, and when I fully wake up, everypart of my body aches and my injury is throbbing painfully.
I toss and turn, trying and failing to find a position where I’m comfortable.
“Hold on, baby.” His voice feels like it’s a long way away—soft and hoarse and needed. “Let me get a wet cloth. You definitely have a fever.”
“I don’t think… I have a fever.” Even as I say the words, I can sense they’re ridiculous. Of course a fever is what I have. It’s the only thing that explains why I’m sweltering hot and achy this way.
“Okay. If you say so. But I’m going to get something to cool you down anyway.”
It feels like he’s gone an eternity, but he finally returns. He wipes my face and neck with a cool, wet washcloth. At first it feels good. I sigh in relief.
But soon it starts getting annoying. Making me wet. Bothering me. I swat his hand away.
