Page 30 of If All Else Sails
“Probably a rat,” he says. “Maybe a raccoon, though if it’s out in the day, it could have rabies.”
Fabulous. Rabies is just the thing I want on my mind.
“Don’t worry, though. I won’t let it hurt you.” The small smile is back on his face, and I have to turn away because it’s glorious and does weird things to my insides.
I focus on breathing through my mouth as I clean the floor. Once that’s done, I move to the table. I already bagged the empty takeout containers, but that still leaves the table full of papers and rolled-up blueprints. All the while I ignore Wyatt, who hovers in the doorway, watching me. At least he’s stopped trying to tell me not to do things, though I’m alittle surprised he doesn’t also tell me how I’m doing things wrong.
“What should I do with these?” I ask. “Are they blueprints?”
“Leave them,” he says.
“You don’t want to use the table for, oh, I don’t know— eating?”
“No.”
Okay, then. I almost ask about the plans, but I’ve already been intrusive enough. I realize I never started the washer, so I locate detergent and dump in a capful. The washing machine sounds like a car with a bad engine, but at least it’s running.
“You should get back in bed,” I tell Wyatt, who hasn’t moved. I don’t look directly at him, like this will somehow encourage him to leave. “I’ll come take your temperature again in a minute. Do you want some water?”
I peer into the fridge, which resembles a ghost town. The only thing missing is a tumbleweed blowing by the half-empty (and likely expired) ketchup, some water bottles, and a container of Cool Whip, which I think should be kept in the freezer. It has a piece of duct tape on the front that reads DO NOT THROW AWAY.
I’m all set to ask about it when Wyatt says, “This was my uncle’s house.”
Turning slowly, I meet his gaze. “Yeah?”
The small smile from a few moments ago is gone, replaced by a frown. Not the normal grumpy one. This one is more somber, and it shoots a bolt of concern straight through my chest.
“He died.” Wyatt sniffs.
Oh my gosh—is he about to cry?
I find myself frozen, one hand wrapped around the fridge handle like it’s my only lifeline.
“Wyatt, I’m so sorry.”
He only nods. But a moment later, his expression shifts once again, like a curtain has been lifted.
“It’s okay, JoJo,” Wyatt says with a smile. “Nowyou’rehere.”
I frown. Because no one calls me JoJo. Definitely not Wyatt. We’re not exactly nickname people with each other.
Not only that, but his voice is lighter, with a musical lilt.
It sounds almost...flirty.
Didn’t he just seem like he was about to cry over his uncle dying? It has to be the fever. Maybe he’s not doing better but is actually just fever high. It would explain the mood swings. Or, you know, Wyatt having moods other than surly.
I take a step toward him, noting the way color has risen in his cheeks. “Wyatt?”
Then he smiles—a real, full smile like I’ve never seen. And I know something’s very wrong.
But it’s when he tries to use his crutch to—I think—boop me on the nose while slurring, “I like you, JoJo,” that I know.
It’s time to get him to the hospital.
Chapter8
Free-Range Zombie Pigs
