He looks at me. There’s something in his eyes, a question, a hesitation.
I want to tell him to stay. I want to ask him to sit on the edge of the bed and hold my hand like he did earlier. But the words are stuck in my throat.
The dream is too fresh. The feeling of his skin on mine is too potent.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods once. He turns and walks out the door, closing it softly behind him.
I stare at the wood grain, feeling the loss of him like a physical blow.
“Sedona?” Maggie’s voice cuts through my haze. “Focus on me.”
I turn back to her. She shines the light in my eyes. I wince, the brightness sending a spike of pain through my skull.
“Pupils are dilated,” she murmurs. “Reaction is sluggish.”
She takes my wrist, checking my pulse. Her fingers are cool. She counts silently, staring at the second hand on her watch.
“Heart rate is elevated,” she says. “One-fifteen.”
“That’s high?” Clara asks.
“For someone resting? Yes.” Maggie releases my wrist and pulls a digital thermometer from her bag. She runs it across my forehead.
It beeps.
“One-oh-three,” she reads. She frowns. “The fever isn’t responding to the ibuprofen.”
“I feel… weird,” I say. “It’s not just the fever. I feel…”
I trail off. How do I describe it? The itch under my skin. The restlessness in my legs. The ache that isn’t pain, but something else. Something hungry.
“Where do you hurt?” Maggie asks.
“My head. My joints.” I hesitate. I press a hand to my lower stomach. “My belly feels tight.”
Maggie frowns. She pulls a chair over and sits down, leaning in with her elbows on her knees.
“Sedona, I need to ask you some questions. And I need you to be honest with me.”
“Okay.”
“Have you experienced any unusual discharge? Any cramping that feels different from menstrual cramps?”
I frown. “Discharge? No. The cramping is… it’s low. Deep.”
Maggie nods slowly. She turns to Clara. “Clara, can I see the list of medications you brought for Sedona?”
Clara nods. She goes to the bag on the table and pulls out a ziplock bag filled with pill bottles. She hands it to Maggie.
Maggie examines the labels. She reads them one by one. She frowns.
“These are strong antivirals,” she says. “And immune boosters.”
“My doctor in New York prescribed them,” I say. “For my immune system. I have a history of getting run down.”
Maggie looks at me. She sets the bottles down on the bed. She pulls out a small notebook from her pocket and flips it open.
