He opens his bag.
An assortment of tools glint from inside. Hepulls out a glass jar. The dark water churns sluggishly. Sinuous black forms writhe within. “We must draw the fever out.”
I bat my hand listlessly.
The doctor is gone.
The sickness remains.
My body is fire but I can’t stop shivering. My teeth chatter. My stomach rolls. My bones hurt.
I’m standing in the ruins of St. Fortuna’s. The Woman of the Woods is with me, her long raven hair cascading down her back. I want to see her face. I want to speak with her. Ask her who she is and why she haunts this place. But she keeps dancing out of reach. I can’t get to her. Then the ground opens up beneath me and I’m falling, falling, falling.
Into a dungeon with coffins.
One creaks open.
A whisper rises from within.
“Seeeeelaaaaaaaaah.”
The voice is familiar and feminine.
“Come find me.”
My eyes flutter open.
I lie in bed, my sheets still drenched. Or maybe drenched again? I try to move my tongue but my mouth is Sahara Desert dry. Sunlight pours through my window. Birds chirp outside. The clock on my bedside table reads 10:58 a.m. There’s a bottle of Pedialyte on my bedside table. A digital thermometer. And a bucket. With a grimace, I rise up to peek inside. Thankfully, it’s empty.
I sink into my bed.
I feel like a wrung out rag. A bowl full of limp noodles. It takes all my strength to sit up and grab the Pedialyte. I take sips at first, then long draws, until the bottle is empty and my tongue is no longer sandpaper. My body, however, feels like it’s been through war. Even reaching for my phone hurts.
The screen lights up.
It’s Thursday!
I’ve been incoherent for over twenty-four hours. With a million missed calls and text messages, most of them from Twig.
Dad pokes his head inside my bedroom. When he sees me sitting, his tired eyes brighten. “Hey, there.” He comes all the way in. “It’s good to see you up.”
“I wish itfeltgood.”
Dad chuckles a little, then runs his hand through his hair, which sticks up in the back. “Can I get you some more Pedialyte? Maybe something to eat?”
I grimace.
The mere mention of food makes me queasy, but if I want to get some modicum of energy back, I should probably try to eat. We agree on toast and a Gatorade. He helps me to the bathroom, where I set my hands on either side of the sink and behold my reflection. I bear an uncanny resemblance to the physician from my dreams. Pale face. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheekbones.
I move like a sloth as I brush my teeth, shower, dry off, and dress in fresh clothes. By the time I’m back in my bedroom, Dad has changed the bedding and fluffed my pillows. There’s a bottle of white Gatorade on my bedside table, along with a plate of toast and a sleeve of saltine crackers, a bottle of Tylenol, and a television remote.
Dad comes in behind me carrying the set from downstairs.
“Dad,” I say.
“In case you get bored.” He sets it on a TV tray and plugs in the cord. “Will you be able to see it from your bed okay?”
“I’ll be able to see it just fine.”
