Chapter 7: The Floor

The fever came at three in the morning, ten times worse than any of the nine.

It started in my chest, where the cut bond lay, and spread out along my arms until the quilt was too hot to bear.

I kicked it off and lay panting in the dark.

My teeth hurt.

My nails hurt.

Every muscle I owned was drawing tight and then letting go.

I thought, June said it would come by morning.

I thought, she was right, and I hated her for it.

Then a cool cloth touched my forehead.

I tried to open my eyes and saw only a shape beside the bed, big and dark against the grey window.

"Drink," Ansel said.

A glass of water pressed against my lip.

I drank half of it and choked.

"Don't leave," I said. I didn't know I was going to.

"I'm here."

"You left before. You said you'd come back."

"I know," he said, so quietly I wasn't sure I'd heard it.

He wrung the cloth out in a basin and laid it over my neck.

Heat ran out of me into the wet cotton, and he turned it and laid it down again.

I lost count of how many times.

At some point the pain had thinned to a low, even burn that I could stand, and I slept.

When I woke the window had gone pale gold.

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