Awake (Book 3)

Eight

August was in and out of fevered deliria for close to a week. Forcing him to eat small amounts and keep hydrated was a vexing struggle, but somehow I got it done. His wounds offered a certain amount of concern as well, especially his leg when it started to show signs of infection. I ticked down the list of everything Tia and Lucille and Jim and Esme taught me, and managed to reduce inflammation. The infection was avoided, but probably by luck. August was strong, anyway. His body wouldn’t do anything he didn’t give it permission to do.

            My body was an exhausted wreck. One morning I tried to shower, but it was too painful, and so I disregarded the notion entirely. Turned out I was more hurt from that Prophet beat-down than I originally concluded. Not a big deal, I supposed. I would take care of it later.

            On about the tenth day of being in his old house—by this time I’d cleaned basically everything and made a risky trip to the local market for food, just in case we would be there for a while—August began to look normal. His wounds healed rapidly and correctly. One afternoon, when I entered to try and wake him up again to feed him lunch, his eyes were already open. They stopped me short in the doorway, the tray of chicken and celery soup held tightly between my fingers. We stared at each other, many unsaid things passing between us. August was back. Not the August in pain or delirious. Just normal August Masterson.

            Breathing deeply, I forced my feet to keep moving, until the tray was on his bedside table and I was perched in the chair by his bed. With some difficulty he pushed himself to a sitting position, shaking his head when I offered to help. He settled against the pillows, releasing a long sigh, and closed his eyes for a moment.

            “You’re probably stiff,” I murmured, reaching for the Tylenol and popping two in my hand. “Here, take some.”

            He did so without complaint, tossing them back with the glass of lukewarm water sitting by the burnt-out candle. I would have to replace it later.

            August didn’t say anything for a moment. He caught sight of my makeshift sleeping area; the pillows and rumpled afghan. His jaw worked back and forth, fingers flexing in his lap. “You slept on the floor,” he noted, voice hoarse.

            I tucked hair behind my ear. “Yes.”

            He didn’t look at me. “You could have slept in the bed.”

            “That’s okay.”

            Another awkward silence.

            “You must be hungry,” I said, grabbing the tray and setting it in his lap, not giving him a choice on the matter. He grabbed the spoon and slurped down some of the soup, licking his lips.

            “Good,” he said.

            “Thank you.”

            “Did you stitch my leg?”

            “Yeah.”

            He winced. “And my side?”

            “Yes.”

            “Thanks.”

            For some reason I had to look away, focusing on my fingers. “You don’t have to thank me, August,” I whispered. “You never have to thank me.”

            That lapsed into more silence, punctuated by the sounds of him eating his soup. Must have been ten minutes we sat there, and when he finished I grabbed the tray and set it to the side, hesitantly rising to my feet.