roof of my mouth.
I had a fever. I was pretty certain that was it. I’d never been sick in my life—injured, maybe—but not sick. I didn’t know what a fever should feel like, but the prickling, terrible heat rising from my skin seemed like a close approximation.
I tried opening my eyes, but my lids were stuck together, keeping me blind. That scared me almost as much as the fever and thirst. I whimpered, and was ashamed.
“Maxine,” Grant whispered, somewhere beside me. A cold wet cloth pressed against my brow, but it wasn’t enough. I shifted a little, and felt plastic around the edges of my body: bags filled with water. Maybe it had all been ice, but not anymore. I felt so hot. Unbearably, as though I were going to catch on fire.
Something sweet and cold touched my lips. A Popsicle. Strawberry-flavored. I sucked on it, greedy, and Grant’s familiar, strong hand cupped my cheek.
“Good,” he murmured raggedly. “That’s good.”
The Popsicle was finished too quickly, but by then I could form words again.
“My eyes,” I breathed. “Can’t open them.”
Grant was silent a moment, which scared me. But then he said, “Hold on.”
Another cool, wet rag pressed against my eyes. Soaking them. Then his fingers touched my lids, and tugged, very gently. I felt a pulling sensation, as though my lashes had been glued shut. All I needed was a little help. My eyes opened.
I saw the canopy again, but the light had shifted, softening the glare against the white cotton. Grant leaned over me. He looked like hell. Pale, gaunt, sweating. His eyes were hollow. I was afraid for him.
“You . . . okay?” I asked, fumbling for his hand.
He swallowed hard and tangled his fingers around mine. “Fine. Don’t worry about me.”
I couldn’t see much past him. My eyeballs began to hurt, as though the muscles and nerves attached to them were strained. A similar ache filled the rest of my body, especially in my joints, spreading through every inch of me, from my head to the tendons of my feet.
“Zee,” I whispered. “Anyone?”
His jaw tightened. “Gone. I don’t know where.”
It was so difficult to swallow. Tears burned my eyes. The terrible hurt that struck me was almost more than I could bear and made me wonder if my mother had felt what I was suffering, in the split second before her death. Not betrayal, as I’d always thought.
Just grief. A moment spent thinking, I thought they loved me, I thought we were friends . . . but was it just the prison, just the bond, a compulsion and nothing else?
Was it? Because where were they? I didn’t give a shit about their protection. All that mattered was that I missed them.
I missed them like they were my own children, ripped out of my arms—and it was a hollow, piercing loss that kept getting stronger, bigger, and harder inside my chest—until the ache was so keen and sharp, I could barely swallow the damn water that Grant kept dribbling down my throat.
I tried pushing him away. My arm worked, barely, but not enough to make him budge. Grant peered at me with bloodshot eyes.
“You need fluids,” he said, hoarse. “I’ve fixed the paralysis, but something else is happening that I can’t touch. I don’t know why. When I tried, you acted as though I was killing you.”
None of that mattered to me. “Need . . . to find them, Grant.”
“No.”
“They were . . . weak.” I stopped, and had to close my eyes. “Have to make sure they’re safe.”
A strangled, bitter sound escaped him. “More safe than you, baby.”
I shook my head, tears leaking past my eyes. “Please. I have to . . . make sure.”
“Your fever has to come down.”
“Grant.”
“They can take care of themselves.”
I struggled to sit up. Grant held me down.
“No,” he said, with a sting in voice like the tip of a whip.
I felt it crack through the air—and suddenly, finding the boys didn’t seem so important. In fact, any concern I’d had for them . . . completely
I had a fever. I was pretty certain that was it. I’d never been sick in my life—injured, maybe—but not sick. I didn’t know what a fever should feel like, but the prickling, terrible heat rising from my skin seemed like a close approximation.
I tried opening my eyes, but my lids were stuck together, keeping me blind. That scared me almost as much as the fever and thirst. I whimpered, and was ashamed.
“Maxine,” Grant whispered, somewhere beside me. A cold wet cloth pressed against my brow, but it wasn’t enough. I shifted a little, and felt plastic around the edges of my body: bags filled with water. Maybe it had all been ice, but not anymore. I felt so hot. Unbearably, as though I were going to catch on fire.
Something sweet and cold touched my lips. A Popsicle. Strawberry-flavored. I sucked on it, greedy, and Grant’s familiar, strong hand cupped my cheek.
“Good,” he murmured raggedly. “That’s good.”
The Popsicle was finished too quickly, but by then I could form words again.
“My eyes,” I breathed. “Can’t open them.”
Grant was silent a moment, which scared me. But then he said, “Hold on.”
Another cool, wet rag pressed against my eyes. Soaking them. Then his fingers touched my lids, and tugged, very gently. I felt a pulling sensation, as though my lashes had been glued shut. All I needed was a little help. My eyes opened.
I saw the canopy again, but the light had shifted, softening the glare against the white cotton. Grant leaned over me. He looked like hell. Pale, gaunt, sweating. His eyes were hollow. I was afraid for him.
“You . . . okay?” I asked, fumbling for his hand.
He swallowed hard and tangled his fingers around mine. “Fine. Don’t worry about me.”
I couldn’t see much past him. My eyeballs began to hurt, as though the muscles and nerves attached to them were strained. A similar ache filled the rest of my body, especially in my joints, spreading through every inch of me, from my head to the tendons of my feet.
“Zee,” I whispered. “Anyone?”
His jaw tightened. “Gone. I don’t know where.”
It was so difficult to swallow. Tears burned my eyes. The terrible hurt that struck me was almost more than I could bear and made me wonder if my mother had felt what I was suffering, in the split second before her death. Not betrayal, as I’d always thought.
Just grief. A moment spent thinking, I thought they loved me, I thought we were friends . . . but was it just the prison, just the bond, a compulsion and nothing else?
Was it? Because where were they? I didn’t give a shit about their protection. All that mattered was that I missed them.
I missed them like they were my own children, ripped out of my arms—and it was a hollow, piercing loss that kept getting stronger, bigger, and harder inside my chest—until the ache was so keen and sharp, I could barely swallow the damn water that Grant kept dribbling down my throat.
I tried pushing him away. My arm worked, barely, but not enough to make him budge. Grant peered at me with bloodshot eyes.
“You need fluids,” he said, hoarse. “I’ve fixed the paralysis, but something else is happening that I can’t touch. I don’t know why. When I tried, you acted as though I was killing you.”
None of that mattered to me. “Need . . . to find them, Grant.”
“No.”
“They were . . . weak.” I stopped, and had to close my eyes. “Have to make sure they’re safe.”
A strangled, bitter sound escaped him. “More safe than you, baby.”
I shook my head, tears leaking past my eyes. “Please. I have to . . . make sure.”
“Your fever has to come down.”
“Grant.”
“They can take care of themselves.”
I struggled to sit up. Grant held me down.
“No,” he said, with a sting in voice like the tip of a whip.
I felt it crack through the air—and suddenly, finding the boys didn’t seem so important. In fact, any concern I’d had for them . . . completely
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