Page 58 of Sick(ness)

Addy wanted to argue, to tell him she would shoulder some of it too. But instead, she nodded, moving closer to stand beside him.

Outside, the storm had left the world frozen and still, but the quiet didn’t register as empty.

Sawyer had turned back to the window, still staring out at the blank sweep of white. His reflection in the frosted glass looked older, worn thin.

Addy took a breath, squaring her shoulders. “I will.”

He glanced at her, brow furrowed. “You will what?”

“I will,” she said again, firmer this time. “Sawyer, I might not be physically strong, but I’m smart. I learn fast. I grew up on a ranch, for God’s sake, I can handle myself. Let me carry some of this weight. Let me help.”

He shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching with a humorless smile. “Addy—”

“No.” She crossed the small room, stopping in front of him, meeting his tired eyes. “You’ve been running on fumes for days. You haven’t slept more than a few hour at a time. You can’t keep doing this. If you burn out, we’re both dead. So you’re going to lie down, and I’m going to take watch. For a short time.

He looked at her as if she’d suggested something reckless, which, to him, it probably was. “You want to stand guard? Alone?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “You said it yourself — we’re stuck here today. The snow’s too deep to move, so it’s not like I’ll be chasing anyone. Simply sitting by the window. Watching.”

“Addy—”

“Give me the gun,” she said, softer now but firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Please.”

He studied her for a long moment, jaw tight, expression unreadable. The fire popped in the silence between them.

Finally, Sawyer exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

A small, reluctant smile ghosted across his face. “All right.”

He set his rifle down by the door, then stretched out near the fire, one arm folded under his head. “Wake me in two hours,” he murmured.

“I will,” she promised.

When his eyes finally closed, the lines in his face softened, the constant readiness easing away. He appeared nearly tranquil, or as near to it as he was capable.

* * *

Addy sat by the window, gun in her lap, the cabin filled with the soft sounds of Sawyer’s steady breathing and the muffled hush of snow outside. She kept her gaze on the tree line, scanning for movement, but part of her couldn’t stop glancing back at him.

She wasn’t afraid of what waited beyond the glass. The danger outside seemed distant; the real battle was here, inside, between fear and hope, exhaustion and trust.

For the first time, Sawyer was letting someone else fight it for him.

Addy sat near the window, the pistol resting in her lap, her eyes moving between the drifting snow and Sawyer’s sleeping form by the fire. His face looked softer in sleep, younger somehow, stripped of the constant tension that usually lived there.

She let her gaze drift back outside. The snow still fell in thick, lazy flakes, muting the world in white. It was almost peaceful, almost beautiful, if she didn’t think too hard about what it was hiding.

Her thoughts slipped back to the weeks before everything broke.

* * *

The television had been the first real warning, though nobody treated it that way at the time. The glow of the screen cut through the dim living room as Addy folded laundry from the dryer, warm towels releasing steam into the air. A perky anchor, her lipstick just a shade too bright, jabbered about an unusually early, unusually aggressive flu season. Behind her, a digital map bloomed with scattered red dots, like harmless freckles on a smooth canvas. “Officials urge calm,” the bold headline read. A smaller subtitle ticked by: Multiple deaths reported.

Addy paused, tugging at a soft cotton sheet, the faint scent of lavender detergent drifting upward. She frowned, reached for the remote, and muted the sound. People caught the flu every year. People died every year. Sad, yes—but not new.

Then those red dots multiplied. They doubled overnight—and doubled again by morning.