Chapter Twenty-Four #2
She swallowed and nodded, unable to offer a verbal response, but still trying to convey how grateful she was to have him by her side.
“Come on, let’s go make sure Naari hasn’t accidentally set the rats free,” Jaren said, taking Kiva’s hand and leading her back along the path. “The last thing we need is for Tipp to wake up and start chasing them all around the infirmary.”
A small laugh left Kiva, slightly hollow but still genuine.
She clung to his offer of levity, pushing away her fear, her grief, and shared, “He had a chest infection about two years ago, and I swear he was the worst patient I’ve ever seen.
I couldn’t keep him in his bed—he always had something he needed to do, somewhere he had to be.
I nearly had to strap him down just to get him to go to sleep.
” She smiled softly at the memory. “If we’d had the rats then, he would have been a nightmare, wanting to play with them all the time.
I’d have had no chance at keeping him under control. ”
Jaren chuckled. “Just you wait, then. If that’s the kind of fighting spirit he has, I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”
It was an empty promise, but it was exactly what Kiva needed to hear as they reached the doorway to the infirmary and she prepared herself for what might come over the next few hours.
“You ready?” Jaren asked, squeezing her fingers.
“No,” Kiva said truthfully. “But I want to be with him.”
And so they reentered the infirmary together, and Kiva spent the rest of the day watching over Tipp, willing him to fight, willing him to live.
Hours passed as the shadows shifted across the room, until suddenly it was night again.
Kiva wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned that Tipp hadn’t awoken since that morning.
She remained in a vigil beside him, leaving only for brief periods to check on Tilda and her other patients.
Seven more were admitted into her care, and nine more passed away, the numbers continuing to grow every day.
When Mot came to collect the dead, he didn’t ask any questions of Kiva, with Naari and Jaren having already filled him in.
He did stand behind her for a while, though, offering silent companionship as they looked down at the small boy, counting his breaths.
“He’s strong, luv,” Mot said, his hand steady on her shoulder. “If anyone can pull through, it’s our Tipp.”
Kiva only nodded, then listened as Mot’s footsteps faded along with the morgue workers he’d brought to carry the bodies away. She didn’t allow herself to wonder how long it would be before they came for Tipp ... or how she would cope when that moment arrived.
It was just before midnight when Tipp stirred again.
Kiva was in the middle of brewing herself some yellownut tea, desperate for an energy boost since she was barely able to keep her eyes open.
Naari and Jaren were slumped on stools, leaning against the worktable, both of them looking as tired as she felt.
But still, they were with her, holding true to Jaren’s promise that she wouldn’t be alone.
“Is it m-morning?”
Kiva looked over to find Tipp pushing himself up in bed. She lowered her infuser and rushed to his bedside, Naari and Jaren right on her heels.
“Not yet,” Kiva answered, pressing her hand to his forehead. She wondered if maybe he was a little cooler than earlier, but that was likely wishful thinking on her part. “How’re you feeling?”
Tipp’s face fell, as if he suddenly remembered where he was and why, and he curled in a little more on himself. “My t-tummy hurts.”
“And your head?” Kiva asked, her fingers still warm from his fevered skin.
“No, just my t-tummy.”
Kiva’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? It doesn’t hurt here?” She touched the side of his face, near his temple.
Tipp shook his head and repeated, “Just my t-tummy.”
Kiva removed her hand, looking at him closely. All of the other sick prisoners had horrible headaches accompanying their stomach pain, including the new patients who had arrived that day. It was one of the earliest symptoms they experienced, along with their rising temperature.
Reaching for Tipp’s blanket, Kiva pushed it aside and lifted the hem of his tunic, ignoring his weak protest when she raised it enough to expose the flesh of his abdomen.
No rash.
His skin was smooth.
Kiva tucked his blanket back in, offering his arm a quick, comforting squeeze to say she was done, her mind whirling as she sought to put a timeline on what she knew of the sickness.
Fever, headaches, and vomiting came first, the rash usually appearing within twenty-four hours.
Kiva didn’t know at what point yesterday Tipp had been struck down by the illness, but she’d left early in the morning with Naari.
If he’d gone out to the garden shortly afterward, as Olisha had claimed, then he’d already passed the twenty-four-hour mark, even the thirty-six-hour mark and beyond.
He should have the rash by now. And he should have had a raging headache since the beginning.
Maybe it was because he was young, the sickness taking longer to flood his system, with the missing symptoms still to come.
And yet Kiva recalled something her father had told her when trying to explain the difference age could play in illnesses.
Children often get it worse, he’d said, brushing his knuckles down her rosy cheek.
It comes on you fast and hard, but leaves that way, too.
Then you’re up and bouncing around much quicker than us oldies, fully recovered in what feels like the blink of an eye, while we’re still miserable as we wait for the lingering dregs to leave our systems. Winking at her, he’d finished, Cherish the gift of youth while you still have it, little mouse .
If her father was right—and he always was when it came to healing—then Tipp should be considerably worse than he currently was.
Kiva didn’t want to give herself false hope, but .
.. what if Tipp wasn’t sick? Or at least, wasn’t sick with whatever was spreading around the prison?
His symptoms were similar, but that was the problem Kiva had faced all along—that the symptoms were so generic they could have been caused by any number of ailments, from viruses to allergies to something as simple as having eaten spoiled food.
There was no way to know for sure, nothing to do except ride it out and see what happened over the next few hours.
And so Kiva sat back down beside him, clutching his hands with hers, and waited.
Four hours later, Tipp’s fever broke.
His stomach stopped hurting.
He asked for some bread.
He wanted to play with the rats.
Kiva wept.