Page 37 of Dearly Departed

And there are antibiotics.

They might not be the right kind for what’s happening to Jacob, but it’s better than⁠—

But we’ll try them. I’ll try them.

There isn’t a thermometer, but there’s supposed to be one in the kit. I don’t need it to tell me that Jacob’s fever shouldn’t be this high, so I move on.

He’s still out when I’m done going through the kit, and that’s long enough. I have to do something.

I start by cleaning the scratches with the antiseptic. He frowns in his sleep, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, but doesn’t wake up.

I sponge his chest with a cool washcloth.

Then I gather up one of the tiny glass bottles, labeled with even tinier print, and a needle and a syringe.

We were just in a plane crash. We just survived a plane crash. But no matter how hard I try to stay calm while I read the booklet and follow the directions for sterilizing the needle and wiping his arm with an alcohol swab—provided with the kit—and measuring out how much of the miracle antibiotic he’s supposed to have based on a chart that’s no bigger than my pinky finger. I have a headache when I’m done reading it.

I read it again anyway.

The sun is at a different angle now, and I’m not waiting another night to do something about this, so I pretend healthcare is actually my real-life passion and inject Jacob right in his arm with the antibiotics.

And then I sit down on the floor and lose it. What if I’ve poisoned him? What if I did it wrong and killed him? What if I’m about to be a murderer because I couldn’t read an instruction booklet?

What if this entire cabin and its first-aid kit and radio were just a trap to lure us in and make us think we had a chance?

I cry so hard I make my headache worse, then remember I haven’t eaten since we had snack mix on the plane.

“If the medicine is poisoned, the food might be poisoned too,” I tell Jacob, who once again doesn’t answer. “So, whatever. Whatever. I’m going to have soup. There’s no way I can eat snack mix right now.”

I eat cold chicken noodle soup.

It’s fine.

It doesn’t seem poisoned, either, or at least I don’t die right away, so that renews my hope in the antibiotics.

I use the metal scrubber to clean the dishes and put them away.

I wash my linen outfit in the sink. It’ll never be the same again, but at least it’ll be clean.

I do my best with Jacob’s clothes and hang them up. They’ll take forever to dry. I will never take our dryer at home for granted ever again.

I hover over Jacob.

His fever doesn’t break.

The clearing gets dark. The sun’s going down.

I’ve just turned on one of the flameless candles when Jacob lurches out of the bed, staggers across the cabin, and braces himself over the sink.

He’s absolutely still for several heartbeats.

Then he’s sick.

I rush to Jacob’s side and take his arm. He’s sick into the sink again, then a third time. It sounds so painful that I could cry, but I don’t. He’s the one who’s sick. When it seems like it’s over, I keep my hand on his arm.

“You’re all right,” I tell him. “You’re okay. I’m glad you’re awake. Can you hear me?”

Jacob turns and looks at me like I’m a stranger. “Catherine?”