Chapter 5
He has the fever all day. No getting rid of him yet.
I hover around the camper, cooling him down, giving him Tylenol, and trying to make him drink water. I do some fiddling in my garden, but otherwise I don’t accomplish anything except trying to keep Micah alive.
His fever gets higher in the afternoon. For an hour or two, he’s talking loudly in his sleep. Most of it makes no sense, but he’s still consumed with babbles about Bunny. At one point, I’m dozing on the lounge when he sits up straight, yelling out, “Bunny! Bunny!”
There’s nothing I can do but try to settle and cool him down. It’s a wretched day overall. I barely eat because I feel sick to my stomach. I hate everything about it, and more than once I wonder if I should just stop fussing over him.
If he dies, he dies. I don’t even know this man, and his injury and fever are neither my fault nor my responsibility.
I just want it over.
I want to go back to how I was yesterday. Safe and quiet and entirely alone.
It’s evening—getting close to dusk—when the fever finally breaks for real.
He’s been sleeping, and Molly and I have taken a short walk. When I return to check on him, his skin is cool and his breathing is slow and even.
The rush of relief I feel is overwhelming. I’m a little shaky as I pull the blanket back to check his bandages.
Before I can withdraw my hands, one of his comes up abruptly to grip my wrist. “What’s happenin’?” he asks brusquely.
He sounds sharp. Fully alert.
“You had a fever all day, but it’s finally broken. I really need to change your bandages if you’re up to it.”
“Sure.” His eyelids make some weird twitches, like he’s trying to pry them open. Then he does. “Sorry you couldn’t get rid of me today.”
I shrug. “Well, the fever wasn’t your fault. Hopefully it’s not the start of a long infection.”
“I feel fine right now ’cept for the damn bullet hole.” He groans softly as he lifts his arms to cross behind his head, giving me access to his body. “And I’m starvin’ to death.”
“I’ll get you something to eat once I do this.”
I’m careful as I peel back the bandages. The wound looks better than I feared. There’s no sign of infection or even unusual inflammation. The skin is already starting to scab over slightly.
“This doesn’t look too bad.”
“It feels better than yesterday.”
“Okay good.” I clean the wound quickly and wrap it back up again. Then I pull up the blanket and help him prop up on the pillows so he can eat.
I make us both sandwiches, realizing I’m suddenly hungry too. Molly gets bites from each of us, and I feel better than I have all day.
I go to bed shortly after dark like normal. There’s simply no reason to stay up late when there’s little light and absolutely nothing to do.
Micah has been quiet this evening, but he definitely looks better. I’m hopeful again. That he’ll be strong enough to leave tomorrow.
We’re both lying in bed in the dark when I ask into the silence, “Who shot you?”
There’s a slight pause before he answers with a lot of gravel in his throat, “Militia types. Just outside the edge of the Wild. They got a place—”
“I know who they are.” My stomach makes a weird clench. “I know where they’re holed up.”
“Run into them before, have you?”
“My brothers both joined up with them. After our folks died.”
“Ah.”
There’s something about the comprehension in his tone that bothers me. Like he now understands something about me he didn’t before. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him even that much. “They were always assholes and bullies,” I add. “They fit right in.”
“They hurt you?”
“Mostly emotionally, although they occasionally pushed me around.”
“I’m sorry you got stuck with them as brothers then.”
I can’t hear anything fake or mocking in his tone, so I assume he means it. “Thanks,” I mumble. “My parents weren’t much better. I didn’t luck out in the family department. That’s for sure.”
“Yeah. I hear that.”
“What did you get stuck with?”
“Drunk father who mostly spoke with his fists.”
“Shit. What about your mom?”
“She wasn’t strong enough to do anything about it.”
“Did you have brothers or sisters?”
“Little sister. She was the only good thing about growin’ up.”
His tone is as edgy as I feel.
With a delicacy that’s not normally like me, I ask, “Is she still around?”
“No.”
I don’t pursue the topic. Instead, I ask, “What did you do to piss off the militia types?”
“Doesn’t take much. Took somethin’ back they thought was theirs.”
“Was it theirs?”
“Absolutely not.”
I believe him. I don’t know why, but I do. If he’s on the wrong side of that militia, then he’s on the right side, as far as I’m concerned.
“Your brothers still with ’em?” Micah asks after a minute.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. A big group broke off shortly after they joined up and joined a drove. I’m pretty sure they went with them.” I blow out a breath. “I hope they did. I never want to see them again, and if they’re still with that militia group, then they’re way too close to me.”
“What’re their names?”
A chill runs through me. “Are you familiar enough with that militia to know them by name?”
“No! No way. Just curious.”
Relieved, I tell him the truth. “Tim and Mike. My husband was Jesse.”
“Your husband?”
The shock in his tone clues me in that I haven’t shared this minor fact of my background with him yet. “Yeah. He was my boyfriend all through high school. Just before Impact, we eloped and ran off. Moved out here.”
“He died?”
“Nope.”
A longer pause. “He take off?”
“Yes. Didn’t even make it to our first anniversary. He joined up with that militia group too.”
“Damn. No wonder you hate ’em so much.” He repositions himself on his bed. I hear the mattress and sheets rustle. “He hurt you too?”
“Only by leaving. He treated me decent otherwise.”
“Why did he leave you here alone then?”
“He wanted me to come with him, and I wouldn’t go. So finally he just left on his own. He wasn’t… he wasn’t as strong as I would have liked, but he wasn’t a bad man.”
“Leaving his wife all by herself in these woods to join up with assholes sounds fuckin’ bad to me.”
“He was scared.”
“Join the club.”
For some reason, his grumpy tone makes me giggle. “He never really opened up to me. He always just went along with what I wanted.”
“That was his first mistake.”
Still trying not to laugh, I continue, “But I understand what happened with him. He was trying to make it work because he wanted to stay with me. But he got scareder and scareder as the world got worse and worse. Until finally he couldn’t take it anymore.
He thought it’d be safer with a big group than out here on our own.
He wasn’t wrong about that. Being alone makes you vulnerable.
But there are different kinds of safety.
And hooking up with a militia group like that one isn’t really safe at all. ”
“It sure as fuck isn’t. If he’s gonna run like a rabbit at the first sign of danger, then you’re better off without him.”
“I think so too. I’ve been fine here. Me and Molly have been just fine.”
“You seem fine. Damn impressive that you’ve made it this long and this well on your own.”
The compliment is slightly gruff, but it sounds sincere. The pleasure from it washes over me.
We lie without speaking for a long time. At least fifteen minutes. He’s so quiet I wonder a time or two if he’s fallen asleep, but then I’ll hear him shift or cough or rearrange his blanket.
“What were you like as a kid?” he asks without warning.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“It’s just a weird, random question.”
“So what? I want to know the answer.”
Shaking my head with a huff of amusement, I tell him, “I was quiet. Reserved. My home life never felt safe or secure, so I was always on guard. Even with other people. I did pretty well in school. I was planning to get through college—starting in community college since it was all I could afford. My teachers all liked me. I did my work and never got into trouble. But it wasn’t because I cared about good behavior.
I cared about surviving long enough to get away. ”
“What did you want to do with your life when you got away?”
“I didn’t know yet. I was planning to major in business and get any sort of decent job I could. I really loved music, but I was too smart to try going into that. I needed money. Music wasn’t the way to do that.”
“What kind of music did you do?”
“I sang. When I was little, I had dreams of being a pop star, but I was too smart to take them seriously. I also played the piano and the flute and was passable on the guitar.”
“Wow. You could do everything. Sing something for me.”
“What?” My cheeks flush for no good reason.
“You heard me.”
“I’m not going to sing for you.”
“Why not? I’m all weak and pitiful from a gunshot wound. It’ll make me feel better.”
“You’re full of crap.”
“Please?”
I sigh, torn between impatience and gratification. I don’t know why I decide to humor him, but I start singing after all.
An old gospel song my mom’s mom used to sing to me as a girl about flying away from this weary, shadowed world into glory.
No particular reason. It’s just the first thing that pops into my mind.
I haven’t sung in years, and it takes a few seconds for my pitch to level out. Then my voice echoes weirdly in the confines of the camper in the middle of the dark, silent night. I’m a soprano, but my voice is full-bodied. I could always sing louder than anyone else.
I temper the volume because I’m weirdly self-conscious. Singing in bed like this in the middle of the night to an audience of only Molly and Micah.
He listens intently. I can sense it even though I can’t see his face. I can actually feel his eyes on me.
I don’t know why my voice cracks slightly on the final lines. As if singing has let loose emotion that I’ve kept trapped inside me for years.
Breaking off the final note abruptly, I clear my voice and shift restlessly. “There.”
“You’re amazin’.”
“I just sang a song.”
“Never heard anythin’ more beautiful in my life.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not exaggeratin’ nothin’. Just about tore my heart right from my body, your singin’ did.”
He’s got a slight Ozark accent normally, but right now it’s a lot stronger than I’ve ever heard it. That detail convinces me he’s telling me the truth.
“Oh. Well.” I have no idea what else to say.
“Sing me another.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
He huffs, although it’s mostly for show. “Please?”
“I said no. Go to sleep. You’re all sick and pitiful after all.”
“I’m not that pitiful.”
It’s hard to read the way the resonance of his final words change, but it makes me flush hot again.
“Go to sleep.”
“Fine. I will if you do too.”
“I’m going to sleep right now.”
I lie still and slow my breathing, but I don’t go right to sleep.
I don’t sleep for a long time.
The next morning, Micah seems better. No fever, and he wakes up when I do at dawn.
He manages to get out of bed and out of the camper to use the outhouse and splash water all over his face, hair, chest, and arms.
I watch him in the faint morning light, wishing I didn’t like the look of his body quite so much.
Out of bed, it seems bigger. More powerful.
He’s wearing nothing but his underwear and the strips holding his bandages in place.
His shoulders curve into well-developed arm muscles.
The shape of his cock is visible beneath the thin cotton of his briefs.
He’s not hard right now, but it still looks… substantial. Tempting.
His thighs are thick, and I even like the coarse hair on his body. He’s got a lot of it.
Tearing my eyes away, I turn slightly so I don’t leer any further. The man was close to death thirty-six hours ago. I shouldn’t be lusting after his body.
I shouldn’t be lusting at all.
I have no room for that in my life any longer.
“Y’okay?” he asks abruptly. It sounds like he’s shaking off the water like a dog.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Dunno. Seems like you got all tense for some reason. You mad at me?”
“No, I’m not mad at you. You look like you feel better today.” I turn around to face him.
“I do. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I’m dressed.”
I nod since this is exactly what I want.
Exactly what I need to happen.
We go back into the camper so he can put his clothes on.
What he was wearing when he arrived is completely ruined, so he pulls clothes out of his pack.
He’s got jeans and gray sweatpants in there, and he chooses the sweatpants with a T-shirt.
Obviously because the sweatpants are easier for him to get on.
It takes a while for him to dress. He’s trying not to show it, but every move pains him.
My stomach gets squirmy as I watch.
“All right. I’m ready.” He stands up slowly. “Can I get my weapons back, or are you keepin’ those for souvenirs?”
“You can have them back.” I step over to pull them out of the compartment where I put them. I’m about to hand him his two guns and three knives when I catch him wincing. I freeze.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, grabbing on to the doorframe when he starts to sway.
“Damn it!” I burst out.
“I said I’m fine!” He’s gone white, but he gives a choppy, breathless laugh. “Now I sound just like you.”
“You’re not fine. If you try to leave now, you’re going to end up in a dead heap on the trail. Forget it.”
“You want me gone, so I’m goin’.” He meets my eyes evenly. His are sober now. A deep, dark blue.
“I don’t want you gone so much that I’m willing to give up all the work I put in keeping you alive. You can stay another day or two.”
He’s standing very still. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I meet his gaze without wavering. “I mean it.”
He gives a short nod. “Okay,” he mutters. “Thanks. But you say the word, and I’m outta here. This place means a lot to you, and I’m not gonna spoil it for you.”
I don’t know what to say to that, but it makes me squirm some more inside.