10
The first sting is like a hot needle stabbing into Curtis’s thigh.
The next, near his ribs, is a bigger, hotter needle.
“Fuck!” he screams, splashing fruitlessly, trying to push the jellyfish away, but they float back toward him on the rippling waves.
Now his forearm gets it. Next his lower back.
“They’re stinging me!” he screams toward the beach.
“Come in, mate!” Damian is waving to him. “Swim in!”
Syd is standing in her bathing suit, her face etched with concern.
“Swim, Curtis!” she cries, and he does, as fast as he can.
Jellyfish stings can be deadly, he knows this, and he can feel the toxins seeping into his bloodstream.
He staggers onto the shore, the stabbing now morphed into throbbing, itching, and burning.
He feels dizzy, a little nauseated. He stands dripping and in pain as his companions surround him, unsure of how to help.
“Fuck,” Damian says, eyes roaming over Curtis’s body. Curtis looks down and sees the angry red welts on his torso, his leg, and his arm. He looks up at Damian.
“You said they didn’t sting.”
“The purple ones at home are harmless,” Bianca jumps in. “These must be different.”
“No shit,” Curtis grumbles.
“What do we do?” Sydney asks. She reaches a comforting hand out to her husband, but she’s afraid to touch him, afraid to make it worse.
“We need to get the tentacles out,” Bianca says. “Grab your credit cards. We can scrape them off.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Curtis asks as the three of them dig in their backpacks and wallets. The thought of scraping his wounds is highly unappealing. “Maybe we should call for help?”
“B.’s a nurse. And this isn’t my first rodeo,” Damian assures him as they set to work plucking and scraping.
Curtis winces and swears, bites his lip to hold back tears.
He doesn’t want to be a pussy in front of their guests, but the scratching on his stings is torture!
Finally, Bianca fills a water bottle with seawater and pours it over the welts. The pain is somewhat bearable now.
“Okay,” Damian says, grabbing the top button of his shorts. “I’m going to have to piss on you.”
“No, thanks.” Curtis steps back.
“It’ll neutralize the sting.” Damian moves toward him. “Stand still.”
“I—I don’t want that!” Curtis’s voice is a screech. He moves away, stumbling on a loose rock, wobbling before he rights himself. Bianca and Damian dissolve into laughter.
“I’m kidding, mate. Everyone knows that’s a recipe for an infection.”
“Hilarious,” Curtis growls.
“We’ve got some hydrocortisone cream in the van,” Bianca says, containing her giggles. “The pain should go away in a few days.”
Curtis looks at Sydney, who’s trying to hide her amusement but not doing a great job. “You okay to walk back?” she asks.
“Fine.” Curtis is already struggling into his shoes.
At home, Curtis takes a long hot shower, then Sydney applies the steroid cream to his welts. “Gentle,” he mutters from his perch on the closed toilet. They’re squeezed into the small but charming bathroom with its original aqua-blue tiles. “It still stings.”
“Hopefully this helps.”
“Why would Bianca tell me those jellyfish didn’t sting? Damian said it, too.”
“They made a mistake,” Syd says, moving to the sore on his lower back.
“He’s a commercial diver. How could he not know they were stingers?”
“There are probably harmless purple jellyfish in Australia, and they got confused.”
“Nothing’s harmless in Australia. They have more dangerous creatures than the rest of the world combined.”
“So you think they sent you into the water to get stung?” Syd puts the cap on the tube. “Why would they do that?”
She’s right. They wouldn’t. But he’s itchy, and in pain, and in a pissy mood. Speaking of pissy…
“I didn’t appreciate him pretending he was going to pee on me.”
Syd smirks. “He was trying to lighten the mood.”
Curtis grabs the clean T-shirt Syd has brought him, gingerly pulls it on. “If he ever gets hurt in my presence, I’ll be sure to make some tasteless jokes.”
“It wasn’t very nice. But now he’s out there emptying the shed and taking measurements for you.”
“I’ll go help,” Curtis says, hurrying into his shorts.
He’s not up to working in the afternoon heat, but the burner phone is hidden in that shed. Damian mustn’t find it. He can’t have the Australian asking why he has a secret phone. Or mentioning it to Bianca or, God forbid, Sydney. It would ruin all the trust he’s built with her.
The grass outside the shed is littered with its former contents: scrap lumber, those dusty coffee cans, the stack of warped shingles.
Where is the phone? He can hear Damian inside the building, the thump of his feet heavy on the wooden floorboards, the zip of the tape measure.
Curtis peers through the tall grass and spots it.
The phone is still wrapped in its rag, nestled between the shingles and a jagged board.
Damian clearly put it there. Did he unwrap the bundle?
Discover the secret device? Curtis hurries over to it, removes it from the fabric, shoves it into his front pocket.
His guest emerges then, shirt off, muscles covered in a sheen of sweat. Curtis stays fit; he looks pretty good, but Damian is a specimen. “Hey, mate. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” he lies. “Better.” This is Curtis’s opportunity to address the burner, make up an excuse for having a phone hidden in his shed. But how could he ask a virtual stranger to keep his secret? And, if Damian didn’t see the phone, Curtis doesn’t want to draw attention to it. So he says nothing.
He takes a step toward the entrance. “Let’s get to work.”