She shoots me a disapproving look. “See, that’s not fair.Everyonelikes Kim Possible. She’s every ten-year-old’s crush. Icarus sounds like the disease Bailey’s fish died from.”
A laugh bursts out of me and I quickly bite my lips to stifle it. It’s no use. It spills out again, louder this time.
“That’sick,” I clarify, and she just nods in agreement.
“Exactly.”
My eyes catch her jaw. The cut from the fight is still there, still swollen and bruised, but what makes my stomach curdle is the strange, unsettling goo seeping out of it. Shining the flashlight on it, my brows weave as I get a nauseating look.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, voice dropping as I examine it. It looks…alive. Like it’s breathing, but not in a fresh, healing way. More like something crawled under her skin and is living there.
Peyton pulls back defensively, her hand flying to cover the cut.“Hey,” she snaps. “Leave it alone.”
My brow flicks up, but then the sound of spilling water catches my attention.“Shit,”I mutter, stopping the pump mid-motion. I glance back at her, but she’s still covering it.
“Is that what you’vebeendoing?” I ask. “Leaving it alone?”
She tucks her free arm over her chest. “Bailey cleaned it.”
“When?”
“When it happened.”
Shaking my head, I exhale a long, frustrated sigh. I turn toward the cabin, and she follows behind, silently. “We need to clean that up,” I say, nose wrinkling as the image of it flashes in my mind again. “There’s a first aid kit inside.”
I hear a huff behind me, but she doesn’t argue. By the time we step back into the cabin, my water bottle is nearly empty again. The moment we’re inside, I’m already on the hunt for that white metal box. I pull it out from beneath the bed, patting the mattress beside me for Peyton to sit. She eyes me with suspicion but eventually collapses onto the mattress with a defeated sigh.
Rummaging through the dusty contents, I toss aside bandages and antiseptic until I find the alcohol wipes, gauze, and medical tape. I spread everything out on the shoefly quilt, and Peyton’s honeycomb eyes widen, her thick lashes snapping to her brows in alarm.
“Woah, woah.” She holds up her hands, shaking her head in a frantic, almost comical motion. “It needs to breathe.”
“Oh, it’s breathing alright,” I mutter, tearing open the alcohol wipe. “If it breathes any longer, some politician is gonna try to give it rights.”
Peyton rolls her eyes, eyeing the wipe like it might bite her. She scoots back on the bed. “Ha-ha,” she deadpans, but it’s clear she’s anything but calm. I hold the wipe up, and she visibly gulps.
“What?” I ask, eyebrow quirked.
She stares at the towelette, then throws her hands up like she’s about to launch into a lecture. Her eyes are wide, and she scoots back even farther until her back’s pressed against the wall. Her chest starts to rise and fall in quick, shallow breaths.
I grin.
“Are you…scaredof an alcohol wipe?” I tease.
Instantly, she scowls. “No,” she snaps, but her body betrays her. “I just don’t enjoy the anticipation of the sting.”
I stare at her, unable to hide the smirk tugging at my lips. “Peyton, you’re a hockey player.”
“So?”
“So, even if you don’t usually get into fights, you get beat up all the time. I mean, you took that punch like it was nothing.”
I see something flicker in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe even pride—before she doubles down. “Yeah, that’s different,” she attests. “I can take a punch.”
“But you can’t take an alcohol wipe?”
“Ican.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her defiance still palpable despite the slight tremor in her voice. I lean in with the wipe, and she panics. “Just do it fast, okay?”
“Oh, mydrama,” I groan, pressing the wipe to her skin without another word. She flinches, her face scrunching in discomfort.
