She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching my face. Then she nods slowly.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
She turns and walks up the steps to the bunkhouse porch. She opens the door and disappears inside.
I stand there. My hands are shaking. My whole body is vibrating with the effort of staying put.
I want to follow her. I want to kick the door down and carry her to bed and never let her go.
I turn and walk away.
I head for the barn. I need work. I need sweat. I need to bury this feeling under piles of manure and hay.
I find Jasper inside. He’s mucking the stalls, his movements jerky and nervous.
“Hey, Billy,” he says. He looks scared.
“Hey, kid.” I grab a pitchfork and start on the next stall.
We work in silence. The only sounds are the scraping of metal and the breathing of the horses.
“Is she going to be okay?” Jasper asks.
I stop. I lean on the pitchfork. “Who?”
“Sedona. Is she going to die?”
The word hangs in the air.Die. I hadn’t let myself think it. The parasite. The fever.
“No,” I say. “She’s not going to die.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I won’t let her.”
Jasper nods. He goes back to work.
I drive the pitchfork into the hay with more force than necessary, letting the anger fuel me. The anger at the parasite. The anger at the CDC. The anger at myself.
An hour passes. Maybe two.
The barn door opens. Seth walks in. He’s holding two bottles of water. He hands one to me.
“Hydrate,” he says.
I take it and drink half of it in one gulp.
“How is she?” he asks.
“Stubborn.”
“That sounds about right.”
He leans against the stall door. He watches me work.
“The CDC is moving the cattle to the south pasture,” he says. “They’re bringing in portable scanners.”
“Fine.”
