Jojo shrugged, the movement boneless and miserable. “Last night? I think I kept some tea down before bed. Not much.”
That did it. Every red flag in my brain started waving like a parade. I checked his pupils, then pressed two fingers to his wrist, gauging his oxygenation.
The numbers in my head did not look good.
“Okay. Enough of this,” I said, and stood. “You’re getting checked out.”
He blinked up at me from where he knelt, hair stuck to his forehead, mouth still open in protest. “It’s just the flu or something—”
“Or something,” I echoed grimly, and bent to scoop him up, one arm under his knees, the other catching his back. He weighed less than the combat packs I used to carry, and somehow that made it worse.
He tried to wriggle free but only managed a weak thrash before his head lolled against my shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.
“This is so embarrassing,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to—”
“Jojo.” I set my jaw and forced myself to be gentle, even when I wanted to shake some sense into him. “I will always do whatever I have to.” I laid him on the bed, ran to the closet for a clean shirt and jeans, and dressed him like a toddler, ignoring his feeble attempts to assist.
By the time I got his arms into the sleeves, he was shivering. I wrapped him in one of the thick, wool camp blankets and lifted him again, cradling him to my chest. He didn’t fight this time, just nuzzled in with a little whine of gratitude—or maybe resignation.
I stalked through the house, one eye on his face, the other on every possible threat outside the window, even though rationally I knew the only enemy here was whatever microscopic bastard had made him sick.
When I got him bundled in the passenger seat of my truck, I leaned in close, forehead against his. “If you puke in my cab,” Isaid, voice pitched low enough to make him smile, “I’m trading you for a goat.”
He smiled, even as a tear streaked down his cheek. “Would the goat let you spoon it at night?”
“Probably not.” I squeezed his hand, then slammed the door, striding around to the driver’s side.
The drive to the clinic would be twenty minutes at normal speed. I planned to make it in twelve.
We hit the county line going seventy, headlights slicing through the predawn haze. I drove one-handed, the other gripping Jojo’s thigh to keep him anchored, even though the seatbelt had him pinned hard enough to leave marks. Every time I took a corner too fast, the rear tires slewed wide, gravel pelting the undercarriage like gunfire.
“You—don’t have to drive like it’s a chase scene,” Jojo muttered, voice papery, his forehead pressed to the window. Sweat had plastered his hair to his temples, and every bump in the road made his stomach clench and his eyes shut. He kept a death grip on the dashboard, as if it could stabilize the world.
“Only way I know how to drive,” I said, but the quip fell flat. My own jaw was clenched so hard my molars ached. For a second, I wondered if this was what people meant by “nerves,” the way your whole body shrinks down to a tight, humming wire.
The clinic was a squat brick building on the edge of town, most of its lights off except for the ambulance bay and a single lamp in the lobby. I braked so hard we fishtailed into the curb, then jumped out and had Jojo in my arms before he finished unbuckling. The glass doors slid open on their own, but I’d have kicked them in if they hadn’t.
The night nurse—a beta male with a clipboard and bags under his eyes—opened his mouth to deliver some stock greeting, but I bulldozed past him. “We need a doctor. Now,” I barked, and set Jojo on the nearest gurney.
To his credit, the nurse didn’t waste time arguing. He swept the vitals cuff over Jojo’s arm, stuck a thermometer in his ear, and called for the on-call physician with a rapid-fire efficiency that I almost respected.
I hovered beside the gurney, arms folded across my chest, watching every move.
Jojo lay very still, eyes half-closed, breathing shallow. The sickly fluorescence overhead turned his skin the color of skim milk. His fingers twisted the edge of the blanket, knuckles gone white.
“I’m okay,” he tried to say, but the nurse ignored him, fussing with the cuff, then drawing blood with the speed of someone who’d done it a thousand times and could do it blindfolded.
A minute later, the doctor arrived—mid-thirties, hair pulled back tight, eyes sharp. She assessed Jojo, then me, then back to Jojo.
“Stinson, right?” she said to him, squinting at the chart.
Jojo nodded, mortified. “Sorry for the—drama. Rawley’s just—”
“Your temperature is 102.5, pulse’s way up, and you’re diaphoretic,” the doctor cut in. “It’s not drama.” She gave me a nod, less acknowledgment than challenge. “Can you step outside while I examine your partner?”
“No,” I said, flat and unmovable.
She raised one eyebrow, shrugged, and peeled Jojo’s shirt up to check his abdomen. “Pain here?” she asked, pressing under the ribs.
