I process this. The fever. The scent. The convulsions.
“So we wait?”
“All we can do is cool her off,” Clara says. “Ice baths. Cold cloths. Keep her temperature down until the heat breaks or the meds start working.”
Fuck.
I turn toward the bed.
She is a small shape in the center of the mattress. The sheets are tangled around her legs, twisted into ropes.
She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt—my shirt, I realize, one I must have left here years ago or she stole from somewhere—and a pair of cotton shorts.
She’s sweating.
Her skin glistens in the dim light of the lamp. Her red hair is a dark, matted mess against the pillow. Her chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths.
I walk over. Each step feels like wading through water. The scent gets stronger. It pulls at my gut, a physical hook tugging me forward.
I kneel by the bed. The rug is rough under my knees.
“Sedona,” I say.
Her head turns. Her eyes flutter open. They are glassy, unfocused, burning with a fever that scares the hell out of me.
“Billy?” she rasps.
“I’m here.”
A tear leaks from the corner of her eye. It traces a path down her temple, disappearing into her hairline.
“It hurts,” she whispers. “Everything hurts.”
I reach out. I brush a damp curl from her forehead. Her skin is scorching hot under my fingertips.
“What can I do?” I ask. “Tell me what you need.”
“Cold,” she gasps. “I’m burning up.”
I turn my head. “Clara. Get me cold water. And ice. As much as you can carry.”
Clara nods. She scrambles toward the mini-fridge, knocking a chair over in her haste.
I look back at Sedona. Her face is contorted in pain. Her hands grip the sheet, knuckles white.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I say. “I don’t care about the quarantine. I don’t care if I have to drive through the damn tape. You need an IV. You need fluids.”
“No,” she gasps. “Can’t. They won’t… they won’t let me back. Can’t leave you.”
“Sedona…”
“Please,” she whimpers. “Don’t make me go.”
Clara returns with a bowl of water and a bucket of ice. She sets them on the nightstand.
“Here,” she says, handing me a washcloth.
I dip the cloth in the water. I wring it out. The water is frigid.
