It's dark when I wake up but he is yelling in his sleep, my memory thief unconscious, feverish and pale. His skin is cold but sweating, his hands grasp at nothing and he's calling my name. I put my hands on his face holding his nose to mine.
Wake up, Sam. Please. Wake up.
His eyes fly open and he startles so hard I hear his elbows crack. It looked like that feeling just as you're falling asleep when you actually feel as though you are falling through space unchecked.
What's wrong?! He is delirious, shaking and confused.
We need to take your temperature.
I'm fine. Go back to sleep and get better, Bridget. I'll stay with you.
(Lord. Why did you send me this loyal soul?)
Shhhhhhhh. He runs his trembling fingers down my cheek. His skin is almost sizzling and Lochlan gets up, swearing, and heads for the first aid kit. There's an old fashioned thermometer in it, the one we use after a error thrown by a digital one with low batteries. I need all the lights on to read it, however, so having your temperature taken around here is a miserable five minutes of blinding light and people confirming the obvious.
He comes back with a forehead thermal sticker. Use this. Oh, good. But then I got out the mercury thermometer anyway. It just seemed so high.
103.
Okay. Not the end of the world. I give Sam some ibuprofen and a huge glass of cold water and Lochlan wrings out a cold cloth to put against his forehead. No one's been this sick yet. Even I've barely run a fever, still flitting around from one moment to the next like a furious bumblebee. Sam is a wet noodle, draped weakly under the sheets, without strength or sense.
Is there any juice?
Of course there is. What kind would you like?
Orange, if you have it.
We do. I'll be right back.
I tiptoe through the house and return in moments with his juice, his favorite blue hobnail glass in hand.
But when I come back he is already asleep again, spooned in Lochlan's arms with Lochlan's hand around his forehead, holding the cold cloth in place. Lochlan is already asleep too so I drink the juice and crawl back in. We can burn the bed later. Lochlan's an expert on that.
Wake up, Sam. Please. Wake up.
His eyes fly open and he startles so hard I hear his elbows crack. It looked like that feeling just as you're falling asleep when you actually feel as though you are falling through space unchecked.
What's wrong?! He is delirious, shaking and confused.
We need to take your temperature.
I'm fine. Go back to sleep and get better, Bridget. I'll stay with you.
(Lord. Why did you send me this loyal soul?)
Shhhhhhhh. He runs his trembling fingers down my cheek. His skin is almost sizzling and Lochlan gets up, swearing, and heads for the first aid kit. There's an old fashioned thermometer in it, the one we use after a error thrown by a digital one with low batteries. I need all the lights on to read it, however, so having your temperature taken around here is a miserable five minutes of blinding light and people confirming the obvious.
He comes back with a forehead thermal sticker. Use this. Oh, good. But then I got out the mercury thermometer anyway. It just seemed so high.
103.
Okay. Not the end of the world. I give Sam some ibuprofen and a huge glass of cold water and Lochlan wrings out a cold cloth to put against his forehead. No one's been this sick yet. Even I've barely run a fever, still flitting around from one moment to the next like a furious bumblebee. Sam is a wet noodle, draped weakly under the sheets, without strength or sense.
Is there any juice?
Of course there is. What kind would you like?
Orange, if you have it.
We do. I'll be right back.
I tiptoe through the house and return in moments with his juice, his favorite blue hobnail glass in hand.
But when I come back he is already asleep again, spooned in Lochlan's arms with Lochlan's hand around his forehead, holding the cold cloth in place. Lochlan is already asleep too so I drink the juice and crawl back in. We can burn the bed later. Lochlan's an expert on that.