Halfway to a Hundred

2: Forty-One Degrees

When I reach home, I unload all the supplies from the wagon without asking for help and bring everything inside in four or five trips.

I take the rope from the post next to our house and take it with the wagon inside.

We don't need to lose our one wagon to a sandstorm, like we did a few years ago.

I remember coming outside on the first day it was safe to leave the house, and seeing only one of our two wagons standing there tied to the post. We searched all over the place for that wagon, but there was so much sand we couldn't find it anywhere.

Inside the house it's already way cooler than outside, and I am thankful we have a roof over our heads. There used to be a lot of homeless people here, but if they didn't end up being taken in by people with a little extra money, they disappeared.

I still pray for them.

As I'm standing on a chair, storing the powdered milk boxes in the worn cabinet, I feel a tug on my dress.

I turn around, and see little Connie standing there in nothing but a tank top and underwear. "Can I ha some milk?" she says in a scratchy, tired voice.

I climb down from the chair and give her a hug.

She's boiling hot.

"No, we have to save it," I tell her. "You need to have water."

"I wan milk, doe," she whines, rubbing her eyes.

"I'll get you some water," I say. "Go back to your bed, now."

She starts walking back towards the hallway, but keeps talking to me. "I'm tired of bed. Can I go help Mama in the back?"

"No, you have to rest," I say, shaking my head. "I can come read you a story if you go now."

"Kay," she says before disappearing into the hallway.

I open one of the water jars and pour a bit of water into a cup, then take it to Connie's room.

It's a small room like mine, with a bed in the top left corner, the nightstand next to it, a bookshelf against the wall opposite the door, as well as a single window.

She's sitting on her bed, scratching behind her ear. "I wan read apple book," she says, holding up the book I got from my teacher when I was four years old.

Tommy's Big, Red Apple.

It's been her favourite book for her whole life, and as much as I'm sick of it now, I sit down next to her on the creaky bed, open the torn-up children's book, and start reading.

Connie falls asleep before I'm even done, so I wake her up to drink her water, then sit there fanning her for a little while.

The fever didn't start until yesterday morning, when she woke up crying because she was so hot.

We don't know what's wrong with her, because the only other symptoms she's shown is just pure tiredness. So we just give her food and plenty of water and hope and pray she gets better soon.

Mama has been trying to break the fever for the past twenty-four hours, but nothing has worked significantly yet.

"Timber!" Mama calls.

"Yes?" I respond.

"Come out here for a moment."

I leave Connie's room and head out to the back yard of the house, where I see Mama standing under the awning, bent over, pulling the box of candles out of the cellar.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"You took in the wagon, right?" she asks.

"Yes."

"How's Connie?"

"Still really hot, but she's asleep. She wanted me to read her a story so I did that and gave her some water."

"Good," says Mama, standing up straight and dusting off her hands. "Then just count the candles for me and make sure there are thirty. If not, tell me, and once you're done, you can go out and see your friends."

I nod and go off to complete the tasks.

Thirty candles, I think, carrying the box inside.

I count out thirty exactly, and just as I am putting them back into the box to use for later, I hear Mama say from outside, "So dusty."

She's reading the thermometer, like she does every year right before we close up for dry season.

And then she says the temperature, in Celsius. "Forty-one."

As much as I don't like dry season, it makes me very thankful that we have a house.