But Jamie spins me again, and I lose sight of the figure for several seconds.
When I look back, nobody’s there.
I frown.
Was it really Finn?
Or is my mind playing tricks on me, showing me what I want to see?
I scan the darkness beyond the circle of firelight.
Nothing.
And suddenly, Finn’s absence hurts.
I wish he were here with me.
I wish I could share this with him.
And then a thought crashes into me out of nowhere:
How would I feel if Finn left Glenfield?
It feels like I swallowed a sack of stones.
That’s how badly my stomach hurts.
CHAPTER 25
FINN
The Jealous Doctor and the Supportive Sheep
(Or How Ragnar Understood What I Refused to Admit)
The medical station opens at exactly nine o’clock, and there are already three patients waiting outside the white tent.
An eight-year-old kid with a scraped knee. A woman in her forties who twisted her ankle setting up her pastry stand. And a man who tried lifting a caber during warmups and strained a muscle in his back.
I bring them in one by one and treat their injuries with the mechanical efficiency left behind by three hours of sleep and an entire sleepless night replaying images of Mary dancing with Jamie MacNeil.
Disinfect.
Bandage.
Advice.
Next.
“Keep your foot elevated tonight,” I tell the woman with the sprained ankle. “And use ice if the pain gets worse.”
She thanks me and limps out of the tent.
I stay seated there in the white canvas tent that smells like disinfectant and damp fabric, forcing myself not to look toward the animal pens.
Toward Mary.
It doesn’t work.
