Another lie, but a kind one.
He brings me the food on a wooden plate—thick slices of bread, chunks of cheese, strips of dried venison. My stomach growls at the sight of it.
"Eat slowly," he instructs, setting the plate on the bed beside me. "Your system is still recovering. Too much too fast and you'll make yourself sick."
I take a small bite of bread. It's the same kind he gave me two days ago—dense, hearty, slightly sweet. Was it really yesterday that I brought him chocolate and oranges? It feels like a lifetime ago.
"My pack," I say suddenly. "My camera, my phone—"
"On the floor by the door. Everything survived. The waterproof case worked."
Thank God. My whole life is in that equipment.
He pulls up a chair and sits, maintaining distance. His eyes are dark, unreadable, fixed somewhere over my shoulder ratherthan on me. Because he doesn't want to look at me, I realize. Because he saw me half-naked and now he's uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out.
He frowns. "For what?"
"For—" I gesture vaguely at myself, at the situation. "For you having to... I know you didn't want to see... I mean, I'm sure it wasn't..." I trail off, unable to find words that don't make this worse.
His frown deepens. "You're sorry I had to remove your wet clothes to prevent you from dying?"
"I'm sorry you had to see me like that," I say, looking down at the bread in my hands.
The silence stretches so long I risk a glance up. He's staring at me now, really looking at me, and his expression is somewhere between confused and angry.
"You think I cared what you looked like?" His voice is rough. "You were dying. Your lips were blue, your skin was ice, your heart was barely beating. I wasn't thinking about anything except keeping you alive."
"I know, but—"
"But nothing." He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "You think I'm that shallow? That I'd judge a dying woman's body while trying to save her life?"
"No! I just meant—" What did I mean? That I'm self-conscious? That I've internalized years of messages about bodies like mine? That the thought of him seeing my curves makes me want to crawl into a hole?
"I didn't look," he says. "I mean, I had to look enough to get your clothes off without hurting you, but I wasn't... examining you. I was doing what needed to be done. That's it."
But his eyes dart away as he says it, and I notice the faint color on his cheekbones.
He's lying again. Or at least not telling the whole truth. He did look. And now he's trying to make me feel better about it.
Which somehow makes it worse.
"I should go," I say. "As soon as my clothes are dry. I've imposed enough."
"Your clothes won't be fully dry until morning. And you need rest. Real rest, not just a couple hours."
"I can't stay here all night."
"You can and you will." It's not a request. "You're still recovering. You try to hike out now, in the dark, and you'll just end up lost again. Or worse."
"But where will you sleep?"
He gestures to the floor. "I've slept on worse."
"I can't take your bed—"
"You already did. And you're not moving. Doctor's orders."
