Page 163 of The Revenge Plan (Forbidden Descendants 1)

Except he didn’t.

“Wick?” I slurred again, tapping his arm once more.

No response.

Heart kicking into overdrive, I sat up and laid my hand against his forehead. He was burning up, still breathing, but not waking. I shook him some more, harder this time. I called his name until I was shouting. I ran for a cup of water and sprinkled some on his face. I ripped off his blanket and literally sat him upright in bed. He just slumped back down onto his pillows as if in a—shit, I was too scared to even think the word in my head.

I scrambled for my phone and called my parents. Dad answered on the fourth ring, still half asleep.

“Dad!” I cried, panicking. “Wick’s not waking up.”

It took him a moment to orient himself and realize who had even called him and then deduce who Wick was. Finally growing cognizant enough to talk, he said, “Well, try again.”

“Are you listening to me?” I growled. “He’s not waking up. I’ve tried everything.”

“Is he still breathing?”

“Yes. But his temperature’s sky high.”

“Then get the boy to a hospital.”

“What?!” I shrieked, losing it and running my hands through my hair. “You think it’s that bad?”

“Honey, I don’t know. I’m not there. But if you’ve tried everything you can, and it’s not working, get more help. If it ends up that he’s okay and he wakes healthy as a horse five minutes later, then no harm done. Better to be safe than sorry, right?”

“Right. Okay.” I nodded, grateful for that advice. “I’ll talk soon. Love you.”

42

Henry

Issue 8 of “Hopeless Henry”

By Alice Bennet

Taken from the University Gazette

I met Jocelyn at the store. I was halfway through my junior year and needed some soap, milk, and new socks. She was out in the parking lot when I pulled into a spot about three spaces down, trying to fit a large-screen television box into the trunk of her Honda.

I’d just stepped out of my truck and shut the door when I heard the cursing. I glanced over to see the shopping cart she’d just pulled the television from tip onto its side. Then she lost her grip on the box altogether, and it plunged toward the pavement.

“Whoa!” Racing over, I caught an edge of the box and helped her steady it. “Here. I got this end.”

“Oh my God, thank you,” a feminine voice gushed from the other side. The only thing I could see of her was her hands wrapped around to my side and clutching the cardboard for dear life. Her fingernails were painted a dark maroon.

Together, we tried to slot the television into the trunk. When the first try didn’t work, she suggested, “Let’s try it on its side.”

“Half the box is going to stick out of the trunk if you do that,” I advised.

“It’ll have to do. I need to get it home somehow.” She seemed resolved to a fate of hardships. “I already bought the damn thing. I’m not taking it back now.”

I glanced toward my truck, not sure if I should offer. This was a woman alone, and I was a complete stranger to her. I didn’t want to freak her out by suggesting I follow her home with a piece of her new, expensive merchandise in the bed of my truck.

But when the television wouldn’t even fit into her trunk sideways, and she cursed some more, mumbling something about needing to go back into the store to buy some bungee cords or rope to tie it to the roof of her car, I cleared my throat.

“I, uh…” Dammit, how did one make such a bold suggestion? So I just lamely blurted, “I have a truck.”

She immediately stopped struggling and peered around the box at me. She was attractive, probably a couple of years older than me, with light brown hair and big brown eyes.

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