Chapter 22 Sedona
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sedona
My head is pounding, a vicious, drilling pain behind my eyes that makes me groan before I even open them. The surface beneath me is hard and unforgiving, covered by a thin, scratchy blanket.
“Sedona? Oh, thank god.”
Clara’s voice is a lifeline, pulling me up from the murky depths of unconsciousness. Her hand is cool on my forehead, her touch gentle.
I blink my eyes open, the bright light filtering through the small windows making me wince. “Where am I?”
“Ambulance. How are you feeling? Fuck. That was so scary.”
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.
It’s a lie. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
I turn my head slowly, carefully, and my gaze lands on a lanky form lying on a narrow gurney pushed against the opposite wall.
It’s Jasper. He’s not injured, as far as I can tell, but he’s a mess. He’s caked in dirt from head to toe, a streak of mud across his cheek. He’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling with a look of profound shock on his face.
“What happened?” I ask.
Clara helps me sit up, pressing a cup of water into my hands. “You fainted,” she says, her voice still shaky with residual fear. “Flat out. One minute you were listening to the CDC guy, the next you were on the ground. You scared ten years off my life, Sedona.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re up now.”
I take a sip of water, the cool liquid a small relief against my parched throat. “My head is pounding.”
“Can I get you anything? Another blanket? More water?” she asks, fussing over me like a mother hen.
“I’m okay,” I say, though I’m far from it. She takes my hand, her grip tight and reassuring. “Where are the others?”
My mind is still trying to piece together the fragmented memories.
“They’re giving their samples,” she says, just as a new face appears at the ambulance door.
It’s the deputy sheriff, looking like a character from an old war movie with a large bandage wrapped around his head.
He peeks in, his eyes landing on me. “She’s awake!” he yells over his shoulder, his voice booming with relief.
I turn to Clara, my brow furrowed in confusion. “Is that… a bandage?”
Clara nods, and a strange, choked sound escapes her. It takes me a second to realize she’s trying not to laugh.
“The sheriff tackled him,” she whispers, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“What?” I ask, completely lost.
And then the story comes tumbling out, a bizarre tale that feels like it belongs in a slapstick comedy.
“After you fainted, Deputy Martinez… bolted,” she explains, her words coming in a rush.
“He took one look at the hazmat suits and just ran. Ben Riley full-on tackled him in the dirt. Right there in front of everyone. And then Jasper, poor kid, tried to follow the sheriff, I think to help, and he tripped over a loose fence post and face-planted. That’s how he ended up all dirty. ”
I can’t help it. A laugh bubbles up from my chest, a painful bark that makes my head throb viciously.
I wince, pressing a hand to my temple, but the image of Sheriff Ben Riley tackling his own deputy is too absurd, too perfect, to contain.
Just then, three figures block the light from the open door.
It’s the Carsons.
Billy is the first one to speak, his deep voice cutting through the air. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, my gaze meeting his. He looks concerned, his blue-gray eyes intense and searching my face.
He must find what he was looking for because he just nods, a short, sharp jerk of his head.
“You scared the hell out of us,” Tex says.
“I have no memory of what happened,” I admit, my mind still fuzzy around the edges.
“Well, they’re turning the ranch into a fucking spectacle,” he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s like a three-ring circus out there.”
Billy curses under his breath. “We might as well be a petting zoo. Everyone and their mother keeps driving by to take pictures from a distance.”
Just as Tex is about to say more, Nurse Maggie and Dr. Thorne appear. They’re with Mayor Ruth Holloway, who is dressed in a full hazmat suit, making her look like a futuristic astronaut who’s come to inspect our livestock.
“Dr. Archer,” the mayor says, her voice slightly muffled by her mask.
“It’s quite unfortunate what happened. We’re all glad you’re feeling better.
” She gives a little nod, a gesture of formal, municipal sympathy.
“I’m here in case you need anything. The town will provide whatever resources are necessary. ”
Nurse Maggie steps forward, her medical kit in hand. “I’m going to run a few tests on you, Sedona. Check your vitals, your temperature. Then Dr. Thorne will need to take your sample.”
She says it so casually, as if she’s talking about a routine blood draw.
I just nod, my head swimming.
Dr. Thorne looks at me, inscrutable behind his reflective faceplate. “We will need to conduct the examination in a controlled environment. Who would you like to stay with you during the procedure?”
My gaze sweeps over the three brothers. Billy, with his fierce, protective anger. Tex, with his open, worried concern. Seth is standing quietly in the background.
They’re all here, all wanting to help, all wanting to be near me. But the thought of being alone with any of them, in this clinical, terrifying context, is too much.
My gaze finds Clara. Her face looks pale and worried.
“I want Clara,” I say, my voice firm.
Dr. Thorne gives a curt, professional nod, as if my preference is just another variable to be logged in his report.
“Of course. Ms. Finch, please put on these gloves and a mask.” He hands Clara a small packet, which she fumbles open with trembling hands.
But it’s the brothers’ reactions I feel most acutely. Tex’s shoulders slump, a subtle but devastating droop of his usual bright optimism. He looks like a puppy who’s just been told to stay.
Seth just gives a slow, understanding nod, but I can see the disappointment in his eyes before he masks it. It’s Billy, though, who hurts the most.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even move. He just… shuts down.
The concern on his face freezes, then recedes, replaced by that familiar, impenetrable wall of ice. He takes a step back, putting more space between us, and the distance feels like a chasm.
“Alright, Dr. Archer,” Nurse Maggie says, her gentle voice pulling my attention back to the immediate, terrifying present. “Let’s get you settled. Just lie back for me.”
I do as she says, the hard gurney unforgiving against my back. She places a cool digital thermometer on my forehead and wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm, the tight squeeze a strange, grounding pressure.
All the while, Dr. Thorne is preparing his kit, laying out sterile swabs, collection tubes, and syringes on a metal tray. The clink of metal on metal makes my stomach clench.
“Your temperature is elevated,” Maggie notes, her voice calm. “One-oh-two-point-four. We’ll monitor that.”
Dr. Thorne steps forward, his face a blank, reflective shield. “I need to take a blood sample and a throat swab. This will be uncomfortable, but it is necessary.”
I just nod, my throat too tight to speak. I look past him, to the open door of the ambulance, where I can see the three Carson brothers standing together, a silent, watching triad.
Billy’s arms are crossed, his jaw like granite. Tex is pacing, his agitation a visible energy. Seth is just standing still, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on me.
They are my past, my present, and a future I can’t even begin to comprehend. And right now, they are just spectators to my violation.
The needle is a sharp, quick prick, a brief, bright flare of pain as Dr. Thorne draws vials of my dark red blood. Then comes the swab, a long, sterile Q-tip that he pushes to the back of my throat, triggering my gag reflex.
I choke, my eyes watering, and Clara is there instantly, her hand finding mine, her grip a lifeline.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “Almost over.”
When it’s finally done, I feel drained, hollowed out. Dr. Thorne labels his samples with meticulous care, his movements precise and impersonal.
“We will begin the analysis immediately,” he says, as if he’s talking about a lab experiment, not a person’s life.
“In the meantime, Sheriff Riley will escort you and Ms. Finch to your designated quarantine quarters. The bunkhouse. You are not to leave the premises for any reason. All meals will be delivered to you. We will be in touch.”
The walk to the bunkhouse is a surreal nightmare. The ranch has been transformed into a militarized zone. Orange plastic tape marks off a wide perimeter around the main house and barns.
Strange white tents have been erected near the edge of the property, and people in hazmat suits move like ghosts between them. The air hums with the low thrum of generators and the crackle of radios.
It’s a spectacle, just as Tex said. A horrifying public spectacle.
Ben Riley meets us at the bunkhouse door, his face grim.
“The boys cleaned it up for you,” he says, his voice muffled by his mask. “It’s the best we can do. I’m sorry, Sedona.”
Clara pushes the door open, and I step inside, bracing myself for a sterile, unfamiliar space. But what I find stops me in my tracks.
The bunkhouse smells… clean. Not like a hospital, but like home. Like lemon polish and fresh laundry.
The two sets of bunk beds are made with military precision, the corners sharp and neat. On the small table in the center of the room sits a pitcher of ice water, two clean glasses, and a plate of cookies that look suspiciously like Daisy Mae’s famous huckleberry bars.
There’s a stack of clean towels on one of the bunks, and a folded note on top of them. My name is written on the outside in Tex’s familiar, scrawling handwriting. I pick it up, my fingers trembling.
Thought you might need these. And the cookies. Daisy insisted. Don’t worry. Hope you feel better. —T.
The simple, kind gesture is my undoing. A single tear escapes, tracing a hot path down my cheek.
This is the pack. This is the care they offer—not clinical, but cookies and clean towels. It’s a messy, imperfect, and overwhelming love that I have no idea how to accept.
The door closes behind us with a heavy, final thud. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is loud in the quiet room. We’re locked in.
Clara lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Well,” she says, her voice a little too bright. “At least the cookies are good.”
I sink onto one of the lower bunks, the mattress firm and clean. I look around the small, tidy room, a prison cell prepared with love.
I’m trapped here with a parasite, with my past, with three men who represent the best and worst moments of my life. I’m trapped, but I’m also… cared for.
The contradiction sits heavy on my chest. I’m here, and I’m alive, but I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.
And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.