He groaned a little as I lay beside him, doing my best to hide my shaking. “Stop fussing, woman.”
“I’m not fussing. It’s gone way beyond fussing.” Nuzzling his neck, I sucked in a gasp at his scolding temperature.
He’s sick.
He’s burning up.
He has a fever.
What do I do?
How do I fix this?
We can’t leave.
God, don’t leave me, G.
“Estelle, I can hear your thoughts. They’re so damn loud. I’m okay...truly.”
I sucked in a shaky breath.
First, Conner.
Now, him.
I couldn’t handle it if he lied.
If he got sick.
If he...
died.
“What’s wrong?” My voice was whisper quiet. “Tell me how to make it better.”
His eyes tightened; he turned to look at me. “I just have a headache and feel a bit sick, that’s all.” He swallowed, his throat working hard. “It might’ve been the fish for lunch. Or I’m just dehydrated.”
“Do you want some water?”
His lips quirked. “You’re so good to me. But no, I just want to nap in the shade. I’m sure once my headache goes away, I’ll be fine.”
Looking through the window, I calculated our time to depart. We’d agreed on pushing off late afternoon in the hope that we’d have enough daylight to move closer to another island and it would be dark enough that we’d see flashing lights or the glow of smog from a village better than in full sunshine. Not to mention, rowing in full zenith would’ve been impossible.
On the other hand, setting sail just before dark might be the worst idea we’d ever had. A full night on the ocean with nothing to illuminate our path? We might row the opposite way. However, Galloway had promised he knew north from south and had a good guess which star to follow.
“Just rest, G. Get better. We can leave tomorrow. No problem.”
“No, we’ll leave today. I’m fine, Stel. You’ll see.”
The heavy depression (that never left thanks to Conner’s death) wrapped a thick cloak around me.
I kissed him again, but my lips found burning skin rather than the salty coolness I knew and loved.
It took everything I had to leave him to sleep and spent the longest afternoon of my life with Pippa and Coco, whispering about the pitfalls and hopefully achievable tasks we’d set ourselves. Doing whatever I could to keep my mind from dismal thoughts.
Neither of us mentioned Galloway’s sickness.
Neither of us brought up Conner.
Both were subjects far too hard to tolerate.
By the time I brought him dinner of coconut milk and squid, he was worse.
His hazy gaze had turned glassy, and he complained about the fire’s brightness, even though there was no way it could affect him being so far from the house.
If he had a migraine, it was severe.
He might have swelling of the brain.
He might have a virus or meningococcal disease.
Both those I wouldn’t be able to cure.
Please, let it just be overwork and tiredness.
Those I could tend to.
Those were in my realm of acceptable concerns.
Halfway through the night, when I clambered out of bed to use the washroom, I touched him again and my heart stopped.
I couldn’t contemplate the worst.
I’d blindly believed (trusted) that what he’d told me was the truth. That this was a simple set-back and he would wake in full health tomorrow.
I needed him to rest.
To heal.
To get better.
To get well, dammit.
Not to get worse.
But he was worse.
So, so much worse.
I shook him as his eyelids fluttered.
“G, open your eyes.”
He moaned, rolling onto his side. In his sleep, he’d cradled his left hand where his index finger had swollen and turned a faint shade of red.
The splinter.
Something so simple and common.
Something he’d overcome a hundred times before.
So why isn’t he overcoming this one?
What’s going on?
My mind went into overdrive, forcing dormant cures to rise. If his finger caused his fever, that had to be isolated.
A tourniquet.
Fumbling in the dark, I rushed to Conner’s bedroom.
Tears shot to my eyes at the pristine, untouched space. No one had had the heart to remove the flax blankets or clear out the island clutter. On top of his carved belongings sat the slingshot Galloway had made him.
It tore out my heart to untie the black string from the forked weapon but I did it to save G. Clutching the fine rope, I rushed back to Galloway and slammed to my knees.
He remained fast asleep, unmoving.
I dropped the string I shook so hard, wrapping the blackness around his forearm.
How tight should I pull?
How tight could he stand it before the limb starved of blood?
Is this going to work?
Tying a hasty knot, I ran my hands up his arm, hating the tingling heat beneath my fingertips. The ever-present fear hung itself around my throat as I shook him again. I craved the beauty of electric light to douse him in brightness and confront just how sick he was.
But we didn’t have that luxury; I’d even forgotten how brilliant such a device was. All I had access to was a burning fire or the silvery moon and both were outside.
We have to go.
“G, please...help me get you up.”
He flinched with annoyance. “Woman, just let me rest.”
“No. I need to look at you.”