Page 35 of Ship Wrecked

Ramónscanned Peter from head to toe, paused, then looked down at the thick rug for a moment. “Oh, I’m sure he had his reasons, Nava.”

“But—”

“Anyway, we should listen to what the doctor has to say. You don’t want to risk the health of our cast member, do you?”

“Of course not,” Nava snapped, running an agitated hand over her buzz cut. “That’s why we were both so damn angry when they forced us to—”

Enlightenment dawned midsentence.

She bit her lip. “Ah. Yes. Right you are, Ramón. We should definitely listen to the doctor, who so kindly took time out of her busy schedule to help our endangered star.”

“Step one toward sainthood: check,” Dr. Fitzgerald murmured.

Without further ado, Ramón and Nava perched on the edge of Peter’s couch and positioned his phone’s screen so the doctor could see both of them.

“Without seeing Peter in person, it’s hard to make a definitive diagnosis, but all the symptoms he described to me correspond with the flu. A severe enough case to prohibit working for several days, but not so severe that he needs to seek medical attention elsewhere.” The doctor phrased each sentence delicately, word by careful word. “I don’t see any reason why someone with those symptoms shouldn’t be able to recover at the hotel. Unless his health were to take a very sudden, very steep downward turn, I’d recommend that he simply rest. Drink lots of fluids, eat nourishing foods, take over-the-counter fever-reducing medicines if his temperature were to spike. Once the storm is safely past, if his symptoms haven’t lessened in severity, I’d be delighted to see him in person. But otherwise, in another”—she tapped her chin thoughtfully—“oh, let’s say three days, he should be just fine.”

“That is... excellent news.” Nava gave her own little cough. “That he should be better soon, I mean. Sadly, the rest of this episode’s scenes feature Peter, so we’ll have to stop shooting entirely until he recovers. But we certainly wouldn’t want to risk our stars by forcing them to film when they shouldn’t be on set.”

“No. Of course not,” Dr. Fitzgerald said soothingly. “Luckily, you don’t have to.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Ramón’s voice was low and fervent, and he let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” Her smile was wide and impish. “Trust me on that.”

After offering a few cheerful goodbyes, as well as a promise that the production would receive her bill in due course, she ended the virtual appointment.

The silence in the hotel suite suddenly seemed very, very loud.

Peter sneezed lustily, if dryly, into a convenient tissue.

“Reedton.” Ramón stood, stretching his arms upward with a satisfied yawn. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you sought medical intervention.”

Sagging into the back of his chair, Peter rasped out, “Anything for actor safety and good health.”

“Indeed.” Once she’d risen from the sofa, Nava walked to him, bent down, and kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll check on you tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll feel well enough for our usual breakfast, even if your health takes a sudden downturn immediately afterward.”

“Uh . . .”Hack hack hack. “I heard some weird rumors earlier, by the way. Just... around the internet. Don’t remember exactly where.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Ramón raised a single eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Apparently some entertainment blogger received an anonymous tip about filming conditions here on the island, and she may be making inquiries with the actors’ union?” Peter shrugged in pretend befuddlement. “What’s weird is that the tip came from somewhere in Boston. How could the tipster even know anything about our production from an ocean away?”

“Wow. What a mystery.” After a pause, Nava added, “I imagine a bit more supervision on set wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, if it ensured the safety of our cast and crew. Even if additional filming delays and budgetary requirements angered our showrunners.”

“Well, if they get angry, no one on this island is to blame. That much is clear.” As he passed by the chair on his way to the door, Ramón ruffled Peter’s hair affectionately. “Enjoy your much-deserved rest, kid.”

Kid. As if Peter were sixteen instead of thirty-six.

Maybe hewasrunning a fever, ironically enough, because he suddenly felt very... warm.

Then they were gone, and Peter called the front desk to arrange a bit of room service for dinner. After all, it wouldn’t do to give anyone the wrong impression about his health, right?

That night, for the first time since November, he fell asleep easily.

He dreamed of Maria.

She called him a shit-boot.

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