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It’s the worst.

I’m splayed out on my bedroom floor when the door bursts open.

I can’t even scream because my throat is so dry. I squeeze my eyes closed, because all I can think is that I’m going to die here. Someone has broken in and is going to kidnap me or attack me or something, and I don’t even care. I don’t have the energy to open my eyes to see who it is. Probably best not to know.

“Beth. Are you alright?”

Wait.

I know that voice. I furrow my brow, which aggravates my head, so I put my hand to my temple and start massaging it.

“Beth.”

It’s a low, soft, deep-sounding voice. It reminds me of happy, less stressful times.

“Beth. Hey, Bethy? Can you open your eyes for me? Let me know you’re okay.”

Why can’t my brain place the voice? It’s not Jack. It’s not Calvin. My grandpa’s in Florida, so it can’t be him. But it’s someone who’s here to take care of me.

I crack an eye, but my vision is blurry.

“There ya go. That’s good.”

I moan against the light. I have no clue what time of day or night it is. I fell into bed after we cleaned up the Christmas Market Sunday morning after Mass, and I’ve only come to periodically since then.

I feel arms scooping around me, and then I’m lifted off the floor.

“Don’t kidnap me,” I mutter.

As far as putting up a fight, it’s not much.

I feel the rumble of a chuckle through the shirt of my attacker.

Or rescuer.

I’m not sure which.

“Where are you taking me?” I still have my eyes pinched closed.

“To bed.”

I blink at that, and when my vision comes into focus, I’m staring into the face of Gabe.

“There you are,” he says softly, his gaze scanning my face from top to bottom and then side to side, like he’s chronicling every inch of it.

I want to enjoy his scrutiny, but I shouldn’t want that. Should I? My frustration comes out as a whimper, and his small smile falls.

“Where does it hurt?”

Now there’s a loaded question. Are we talking mentally, physically, emotionally? Because my head hurts. My heart hurts. My arms hurt. My chest hurts. All of it. And then some.

“Everywhere,” I whisper.

Gabe’s grip on my arms and under my legs tightens for the briefest second, and then he settles me back into bed.

He pulls up my comforter to my chin and tucks me in like I’m a toddler who had a bad dream.

“Here.” He grabs for my water bottle, which I know wasn’t on my bedside table before. I didn’t have the wherewithal after I got home yesterday to get myself anything to help with how I’m feeling. He holds it in front of my lips, and I take a slurp from the straw.