The mattress dips as he sits down next to me. Hawk’s cool palm feels so much better than the hair that was sticking to my forehead.
“Shit, you’re burning up,” he says and presses his lips together. “Okay. Okay. I’ll take DJ downstairs to wait for Molly, and I’ll get you some medicine. Then call Red. And Doc. Just… hang in there for a few minutes, can you do that for me, baby?”
He’s already heading for the door, but his eyes are still trained on me. I don’t want to disappoint him. Answering this question seems really important, so with the last of my strength, I nod.
“Be right back,” he says, and I drift off again.
A wet cloth on my face wakes me.
I hate it. I scrunch up my whole face and mumble my protests.
“Okay, okay, it’s over. I stopped. Do you want to sit up for a bit?”
“No,” I say, but he still pulls me up.
I shake my head as the duvet falls down to my waist. I’m wearing only my sleeping tank, and where I’d normally worry about him seeing my saggy, braless boobs, I honestly can’t be bothered right now. Not when I’m dying.
My throat hurts. I try clearing it, but that makes it even worse.
Hawk hands me a thermometer and then busies himself with opening a bottle of Tylenol. After the thermometer beeps, he takes it from me, all business-like.
He could be a doctor, I think, as I squint and imagine him with a white coat. A hot, frowning doctor.
“102.4,” he says as he hands me two pills and a glass of orange juice. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death,” I say dramatically, even after the cold juice has soothed my throat a bit. “Where’s DJ?”
Hawk takes my hand in his. “I’m sorry. The medicine should help soon. DJ is playing downstairs. I have to go to work now, but I’ll check in with Molly to see how you’re doing. Doc will be coming over any minute.” He blows out a breath and runs his hand over his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone while you’re sick.”
Now my stupid nose hurts too. I take a few deep breaths. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m not alone. DJ and Molly are downstairs.”
After listening to my lungs, looking inside my throat, and palpating the glands on the sides of my neck, Doc informs me it’s most likely a cold and recommends rest, fluids, and 2 Tylenol every 6 hours.
The pills soon put me in a deep, sweaty sleep.
A knock on the door wakes me.
“Did I wake you up? Sorry,” Molly tells me apologetically from the doorway. “DJ is napping in his playpen, so I wanted to see how you were doing and whether you needed anything.”
She’s wearing black skinny jeans and a black T-shirt with the word Intifada printed in big white letters on her chest. I wonder what that means.
“I’m okay. I don’t want you getting sick, so you better stay there.”
Molly laughs. “I never get sick. Now, what do you need?”
I blink several times. “A clean top from my closet if you don’t mind.”
She turns to get it, and on the back of her T-shirt I see a flag that I don’t recognize. The stripes are black, white, and green, and there’s a red triangle on the left.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you! This way, when Hawk calls me again, I’ll be able to tell him I helped you with something,” she says with a teasing grin before heading back downstairs.
I change out of my sweat-soaked tank, drink half of one of the water bottles Hawk left on my nightstand, and, with great difficulty, manage to get to the bathroom.
When I come back out, Hawk is in my room, unpacking some food.
He immediately jumps up to help me back to bed.
