Page 24 of If All Else Sails
“’S broken.”
“What’s broken?”
“The AC.”
“No,” her sweet, soft voice says. “It’s not. You’ve got a fever.”
“Broken,” I insist.
“Stubborn,” she murmurs. “Why didn’t you call for help? You’re barely two feet outside my door.”
Her hand starts to move away from my cheek. I gather the strength to lift my own heavy hand, covering and holding hers there.
“You’re cool,” I say. “Feels good.”
She sighs. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
“You’re a nurse. You can fix me. You handle lice.” She laughs at this. I squeeze her fingers, still pressed to my cheek. “No hospital.”
A pause, and my eyes flutter shut. Even my eyeballs are hot.
“No promises. Did you have surgery? I’m concerned this could be some kind of infection.”
“It’s not an infection.”Probably.“No hospital. Sick of that place.”
A long pause. “I could try to get your fever down first,” she says, and I can hear the reluctance in her voice. “But I’m taking you in the morning if I don’t see improvement.”
“I’ll be good. I’m easy.”
A soft chuckle, and I lean my face into her hand shamelessly. Nuzzling into her cool palm.
“There’s nothing easy about you, Wyatt. Not a single thing.”
Chapter6
Snuggling a Pizza Oven
Josie
Ever tried to hoist a feverish, six-foot-four-ish, two-hundred-something-pound man into bed?
Would not recommend. Negative stars. Scathing Yelp review to follow.
“Can you”—I grunt, shoving at Wyatt’s torso—“just get up there?”
The man draped over me only groans. His eyes are closed. A little drool escapes the corner of his mouth.
I really hope this is the right call—putting him in bed rather than going straight to the ER. When I awoke in total darkness, my bladder was about to explode. There were a few moments of heart-pounding panic where I had to remind myself where I was and realized my nap had stretched well beyond the hour or two I’d expected.
Then I almost tripped over Wyatt’s big body in the hallway just outside my door.Where he’d apparently collapsed right after I did. The difference being, of course, that I was in a bed and he was on the floor, burning up with fever.
I don’t have a great feeling about putting him in bed rather than in the car, but I also want to respect Wyatt’s desire to stay home. If we don’tneedto go to the hospital, I don’t want to. Maybe he’s just got a virus. Which I will undoubtedly catch after being practically plastered to him like this.
An even worse possibility is that it’s some kind of infection. If Wyatt had surgery—and I don’t know if he did or didn’t— the incision site could be infected. The lack of information I’m working with here kills me.
It’s the opposite of my normal job, where six-year-old Daisy Whittaker came in with a skinned knee from the playground and proceeded to tell me about her mother’s facelift recovery protocol. Elementary school kids will spill all the beans.
After I get Wyatt in bed, I’ll call Jacob and ask. He has to have some information since he knows Wyatt hasn’t been going to his scheduled appointments.
