Chapter 15
My arm hurts like hell.
It really fucking hurts.
I’ve never been shot before.
I don’t like it.
There’s so much pain that I might have regretted my impulsive rescue maneuver if the alternative wasn’t Micah being dead right now.
I’d rather hurt than have that happen. As self-sufficient as I believe myself to be, that much is still true.
I ride the motorcycle behind a shirtless Micah, gripping tightly with my right arm since it’s my left that’s injured. He drives at a moderate pace, one Molly can maintain without overtaxing herself, and we’re back home a lot faster than I expect.
Molly hurries to her water dish and laps up water and then collapses on some soft moss, panting and visibly pleased with herself. Micah gently unwinds my arms and dismounts, helping me off after him.
I have to lean on him as he leads me over to the camper. It’s not that I’m incapable of walking. It’s that I feel unaccountably weak—either from the pain or the blood loss.
Soon I’m stretched out on the bed on the sheets that were already stained from Micah’s blood. Micah is gently removing my shoes and my belt. “I think I’m okay,” I tell him since his expression is tense. Dead sober.
“You better be,” he mutters, carefully lifting my shoulders so he can pull off my top. It’s ruined. Torn and soaked in blood. Even my bra has blood on it, and it’s the only one I have. “Don’t you dare dive in front of a bullet again.”
“I was saving you,” I explain. My mind is a little fuzzy, but it’s important to me that he knows I wasn’t just being stupid.
I’m never stupid.
“I know you were. Don’t do it again.” Before I can object, he adds low and thick, “I’m not worth it.”
“Wh—”
“Your life for my life is not an even trade. Not even close.” He holds my eyes, his eyes far darker than blue eyes should ever be. “Don’t do it again.”
The pain has intensified because Micah is unwinding his makeshift bandage. I’m hot and muddled and a little bit dizzy, and I hate feeling this way.
But it’s important for me to say one final thing. “I’ll do what I want.”
The rest of the afternoon isn’t a good one.
Micah makes me take a few precious scavenged ibuprofen pills, but the pain only lessens a little.
More than the pain is a stretched, restless feeling all through my body—as if it knows that something inexcusable happened.
A bullet tore through my flesh, ripping apart my physical integrity in a way that simply isn’t right.
I toss and turn most of the afternoon, all my efforts focused on not groaning or whimpering out loud.
It’s important for me not to.
I couldn’t explain exactly why.
It’s late in the day—I have no idea of the time—when Micah sits on the edge of the bed so he can check, clean, and re-dress the wound.
I suck in a sharp breath at the slice of pain.
“I already know you’re stronger and more stoic than me,” he says lightly, his face serious but his eyes glinting just slightly. “You don’t have to keep proving it to me.”
I can’t help but respond to that familiar Micah tone—the self-deprecating, dry cleverness that’s a core feature of his spirit. “I’m not going to be a crybaby like you were when you got shot.”
He chuckles and strokes my damp cheek very lightly with his fingertips. “I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t know what to believe about the universe if my Kat lowered her defenses even for a minute.”
My Kat.
Something about the words makes my stomach twist. Like I love the words and hate them at the exact same time.
I gasp again as he cleans the wound with antiseptic wash. I try to think of something clever to say but come up with nothing.
When he’s wrapped my upper arm snugly, he pulls the covers up over me again. I’m wearing nothing but panties and my worse-for-wear bra, but I’m not cold at all. I bring my arms out from under the covers.
He chuckles. “I wasn’t trying to boss you by covering you up.”
“I know. But I’m feeling kind of hot.”
He puts his hand against my forehead, frowning as he checks my temperature. “You do feel kind of hot. I hope you don’t get a fever.”
“I don’t think it’s a fever. I’m just hot.”
“Okay.” He looks at me for a minute before he puts aside his worries about my health. “While you’re awake, you might as well eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But you should eat something anyway. I noticed you had some canned soup in one of your cabinets. Why don’t I heat that up?”
Soup sounds hot, but at least it’s food I’ll probably be able to get down. I’m really not feeling good at all. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
He heats it up on the firepit outside and brings back a tall mug full of thinned-out chicken-noodle soup.
I do my best because he’s watching and because I can sense he’s going to be pushy about this. I manage to swallow down about half of it before it’s simply too exhausting to manage.
He must be satisfied with my attempts because he doesn’t complain. He eats the rest of the soup himself—gulping it down like it’s a drink—and then disappears to get the camp ready for the night.
An hour later, Molly takes a leap into the camper and then another leap onto my bed, settling herself in a ball near my feet. Micah follows her in, feeling my forehead before he asks, “You need to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah.” I sigh since the effort sounds monumental. “I better pee.”
He helps me up and then outside and then over to the outhouse. Fortunately, I’m stable enough to handle the peeing part on my own. Then I wash my hands and face in a rain barrel before he assists me back inside and into bed.
I collapse with such an impact that Molly lifts her head to peer at me in surprise.
“Sorry, girl. It’s just been a day.”
“It sure has. Try to get some sleep. Hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”
I sure hope he’s right.
I don’t feel better the next day.
I feel worse.
Being me, I pretend otherwise, assuring Micah I’m fine and getting up to wash, go to the bathroom, and stretch my legs.
I have very little energy, however, and I still feel that restless discomfort all through my body. I could deal with the wound pain without too much trouble. It’s that low-level, more pervasive feeling that’s holding me down.
Micah tries to get me to go back to bed, but lying in bed another minute sounds miserable. Instead, I go to the creek and sit on the lawn chair he carries over while he fishes.
I do okay until lunch, when I eat half a sandwich and gulp down two glasses of water. After that, I barely have the energy to hold myself upright, so I consent to Micah’s insistence that I get back into bed for a few hours.
Although I go to sleep almost immediately, it’s not a good sleep. Or a comfortable or restful one.
I feel vaguely conscious of being asleep and uncomfortable the entire time, and when I fully wake up, every part of my body aches and my injury is throbbing painfully.
I toss and turn, trying and failing to find a position where I’m comfortable.
“Hold on, baby.” His voice feels like it’s a long way away—soft and hoarse and needed. “Let me get a wet cloth. You definitely have a fever.”
“I don’t think… I have a fever.” Even as I say the words, I can sense they’re ridiculous. Of course a fever is what I have. It’s the only thing that explains why I’m sweltering hot and achy this way.
“Okay. If you say so. But I’m going to get something to cool you down anyway.”
It feels like he’s gone an eternity, but he finally returns. He wipes my face and neck with a cool, wet washcloth. At first it feels good. I sigh in relief.
But soon it starts getting annoying. Making me wet. Bothering me. I swat his hand away.
“Okay, baby. You need to take some Tylenol. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
It’s either his calling me baby or the promise of being left alone. But for one of those reasons I submit to being manhandled as he lifts me higher, gives me pills to take, and then holds a glass of water at my lips so I can swallow.
I fall back onto the bed when I get them down, scowling at him.
He smiles fondly. “I should have known you’d be a bad patient.”
“You weren’t… the cream of the crop either, you know.”
He’s chuckling as he straightens my covers, only for me to push them down impatiently immediately after.
I’m hot. I don’t want to be covered up.
“I’m fine now,” I tell him. My voice sounds weirdly croaky. “You can stop hovering.”
“Whatever you say. Just let me fix things up first.”
He pulls down the window covers to make the camper darker. That feels better, so I let him call Molly outside when she jumps on the bed to verify that I’m not dying. Then I close my eyes and try to go to sleep.
After that, I have no idea if he’s still hovering or not.