Page 50 of Restoration

“For now,” I reply, my throat raw and aching.

“Do you want to lie down outside or inside?”

“Outside. In case I’m sick again.”

“Okay.” When we reach the blanket we were napping on, he lets go of me. “Wait right here.”

He hurries into the shelter and returns with an armful of our blankets and the pillows we made for ourselves. He spreads them out for me and then helps me lie down and stretch out.

It’s a relief to get off my feet. I close my eyes and try to breathe.

He wipes at my face with the towel again. So gently. It’s cool and damp and feels good.

“What’s wrong with me?” I peer up at Edmund, but the day’s too bright, even in the shade, and my head has started to pound. “How can it be a virus when no one else is around us to give it to me?”

“It must be food poisoning or something like it. Some kind of bacteria on something you ate or in the ocean water or whatever.”

“But you’re not sick.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh please, God, you don’t need to get sick too.”

“You’ll feel better soon.” He brushes stray hairs back from my damp face. “Just try to get some sleep.”

“Okay.” The sand is actually fairly comfortable. Not like the mattress we sleep on but a lot more forgiving than hard ground. I shift around until I can get in the position I want. “Hopefully I’ll feel better soon.”

“You will.” This time when he touches me, it’s to stroke my face with his fingertips.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“For what?”

I hear the words and plan on answering them, but I can’t seem to find the energy to speak. Instead, I drift into a weird, shaky haze.

At least it’s better than being wracked with pain.

***

I’M NOT SURE HOW MUCHtime passes as I’m lying in that restless daze, but it’s broken by my stomach heaving again.

I can’t even get up in time. I have to lean over to throw up on the sand beside my blanket.

Edmund is there immediately. He must have been sitting a couple of feet away. He holds on to my braid and rubs my back, but nothing can make vomiting better.

I’m almost crying when it’s over and I’m lying back against my pillow. He cleans up the sand and the small amount I threw up and then wipes my face again.

Blinking up at him, I try to focus on his familiar face. Messy beard. Soft brown eyes. Wavy hair. High forehead and cheekbones.

Looking at him always makes me feel better.

“It’s okay,” he’s murmuring hoarsely. “You’re going to feel better soon.”

“I hope so. I feel like I’m going to die.”

“I know you do, but you’re not.” His mouth twitches up in a little smile. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

“No. I wouldn’t.” I reach up blindly until my fingers can curl into the fabric of his T-shirt. “I’m not going to leave you.”