Bebe by Darla Phelps Page B

to the tub to open it up. She was lying limp as a rag in the bottom, surrounded by about four inches of dirty water.
    Lowering himself to kneel beside the tub, he emptied the water out and then filled it again with fresh hot water. Unlike the first time, she barely blinked as she was gradually engulfed. Fishing a hand out of the water, he draped it over the lip of the tub.
    Feigning cheerfulness, he said, “Fortunately for you, I actually paid attention during my six weeks of training.”
    He sterilized a needle and then, with the help of a small pair of tweezers, began to pluck the thistles from her fingers and palm. Her skin was red everywhere he found one, making them easier to spot, even the very small slivers.
    Finishing with her hand, he followed the trail of thistles up her arm to the elbow. There were more in her left hand, two underneath her chin, and a whole slew of them sticking out at all angles from the milky-white plain of her belly. She lay as still as something dead while he plucked and plucked and rinsed the wounds and plucked some more, working his way down her legs, and never so much as flinched once. Not even when he rolled her onto her side to remove an especially nasty patch of quill-like thorns from the base of her spine and buttocks. His neck and shoulders began to ache from hunching over the lip of the tub while he worked on her, but he doggedly kept at it until he could run his hands over every part of her without encountering a single thistle.
    Now, all that was left to pluck were her feet. Rolling her onto her back again, he fished each ankle out of the water and hooked her legs over the lip of the tub. It was the closest that he’d come to losing his temper in many years. Worse than the slivers and prickling vouka thorns were the dirty bruises and cuts from walking on jagged rocks with nothing to protect the soles of her soft bare feet.
    Tral got up and walked away from the tub then, shaking his head and laughing, about as far removed from amused as a man could get. He clenched his fist, gripping and flexing his stiff fingers before, shaking his head again, he returned to finish the job. With a steady, careful hand, he removed the last of the thorns before rinsing each foot in turn. He ran the dirty water out of the tub again, and refilled it one last time. She didn’t react at all when he removed a needle from his kit, filling the syringe with antibiotic.
    “Here comes the poke,” he warned, rolling her onto her side so he could swab her hip.
    She blinked twice, but never so much as flinched when he stuck her with the needle.
    Positioning her back on her back, Tral braced his arms on the lip of the tub and looked at her. Sighing, he let his hand rest a moment on her stomach before offering her an awkward pat of comfort. “I think I could use that cup of tea now. How about you?”
    Leaving her to soak and grow warm, he left the bathroom. He got as far as the cold fireplace before allowing himself to become momentarily overwhelmed. Hands on his hips, he stood staring at this morning’s coals and trying to think. What was he going to do with her? He was not a trained vet, and this was not a hospital. This was a one-man station in the middle of nowhere. An observation post, stocked with very few supplies and boasting only the most basic modern conveniences. He had electricity, a computer and a coffee-maker. That was it. In all other aspects, he may as well be living in the stone-age.
    A stone-age made somewhat easier through pre-packaged foods and a handy dart gun, sure, but he only had just enough of either to guarantee his life would become a logistics nightmare if ever he ran so low as to call in a supply-drop in the middle of winter. Small as humans were—and as his little female stray certainly was—Tral was still fairly certain that she’d probably want to eat on at least a once daily basis. So would he frankly. So unless he wanted to supplement this year’s winter stores by learning