I drop my keys in their usual spot and pause, listening. No Lucy greeting me with the story of her day as I had anticipated. No Hildy waiting for me, ready to share the tangled emotions I’d let myself romanticize. Instead, the sound of running water fills the air, punctuated by the clinking of dishes. I set down my bag,shrug off my coat, and kick off my boots before rounding the corner, only to freeze in surprise.
Anneliese stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy bun, a dish towel casually draped over one shoulder. She looks like she’s been doing this forever, not like it’s a sign of the apocalypse, which is the only reasonable explanation.
She glances back at me, her eyes rolling when she sees my shock. lighting up with a smile. “Oh good, you’re home. How do I run this dishwasher?”
I blink at her. “Why are you doing the dishes?”
She frowns slightly. “Because there are dishes to be done.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
With a casual shrug, she gestures with the sponge. “Your house is full of sick people. Someone had to step up.”
“Sick people?” I echo, confusion creeping in.
She waves the sponge dismissively. “Lucy spiked again after lunch. Broke a little while ago, but now Hildy’s not feeling well either.”
“Where are they?”
“Bed,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Both of them.”
I’m already moving. Lucy’s door is ajar, and a faint scent of menthol and honey wafts through, mingling with that unmistakable warmth of fever that twists something primal in my gut.
Lucy lies sprawled sideways on the bed, her cheeks flushed and hair damp at her temples. She’s deep in sleep, clutching the edge of Hildy’s shirt as if it were a lifeline. Hildy is curled protectively around her, her back turned to me, one arm draped over Lucy and the other tucked beneath her chin. Her skin looks too pink.
I cross the room quietly, pressing my fingers to Hildy’s forehead. She’s quite warm.
She stirs at my touch, her lashes fluttering open.
“Hey,” I murmur softly.
“Shouldn’t be in here,” she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll get sick.”
Lucy shifts slightly, making a small, unhappy sound, and Hildy instinctively tightens her hold on her, even in her half-asleep state.
“I’m okay,” Hildy insists, her tone apologetic, as if her presence is a burden. “She needs me here and?—”
“You don’t need to justify that,” I interject gently.
She exhales, a slight wince crossing her face. I retrieve the thermometer from the bedside table, and Hildy watches me, her eyes unfocused as I wait for the beep.
“100.8,” I announce. Not dangerously high, but concerning, nonetheless. “You have a fever.”
She lets out a sigh. “I thought I was just tired.”
I adjust the blanket higher around them, tucking Lucy’s socked feet in snugly, ensuring they’re warm but not trapped. Hildy watches my hands intently, as if trying to memorize the moment.
“You should be in your own bed,” I suggest softly.
“And leave her?” she asks, suddenly more alert.
“No, she comes with you. Your bed is bigger,” I reply.
Her shoulders relax at that. “Okay.”
She’s drained, and I can see it in the way her shoulders sag, in how she clutches the stuffed bunny and the axolotl without a word of protest, allowing me to take on Lucy’s weight. Once we settle them into Hildy’s bedroom, I head back to Lucy’s and grab the humidifier and set it up.
I brush a damp strand of hair from Lucy’s forehead, then do the same for Hildy, my fingers moving instinctively. She doesn’t flinch or pull away.
