Devils Unto Dust(76)

“Just lie back,” Sam says. The shadow comes closer, bending over me. Something touches my face, my wrist, and I flinch, expecting pain. It doesn’t come; all I feel is a slight pressure, coolness against my hot skin.

I’m burning from the inside out. Help me, I plead silently. And maybe Sam can hear me, because his voice comes very close.

“It’s all right, Will. Keep breathing. You had a seizure—a fit—and it’s gonna take some time to recover. But the worst is over, I promise.”

There’s a sharp stinging in my arm then, and the shadow starts to fade.

“Go back to sleep,” he says.

I try to fight it, try to make him understand. Don’t make me go back there, don’t let it take me. The words won’t come, and the clouds are already starting to roll in and he sounds very far away. I can’t stop it and the clouds pull me back into the soft place of dreams.





60.


When I wake up, actually wake up, I know it’s real because of the pain. My joints ache; everywhere my bones connect it feels like they’ve been pried apart and hammered back together. I’m lying on my back, and when I try to roll over my body screams in protest. Even breathing hurts: my throat is tight and raw, and something in my chest pinches when it rises. Opening my eyes takes an effort, my lids flutter and twitch against my cheeks. It’s dim, wherever I am, and my vision is hazy. Soft light comes from somewhere, and I move my head to face the bloom.

“Welcome back.” Sam peels back my eyelids and his face starts to come into focus. He looks exhausted, deep circles beneath his eyes and a gray tinge to his skin.

“Sam?” My voice is a rusty hook, and it scrapes my throat as it comes out.

“I’m here.”

“No,” I say, struggling to push him away. I can still taste blood on my tongue. “You have to get away from me—”

“Willie, stop,” he says, and I’m so weak I can’t move him.

“I’m a shake, I’ll kill you—”

“Look at me,” Sam says, gripping my wrists. “You are not a shake. You won’t hurt me.”

I’m shivering, and I want to believe it so badly.

“Am I dead?” I whisper.

“No,” Sam says, releasing my arms and easing back. “But you tried your damnedest.”

I move my head slowly, trying to take in everything around me. I’m on a cot, and Sam has a stool pulled up next to the bed. There’s a thick, clean bandage wrapped around my hand.

“What . . .” I have to stop and cough, and it sets my jaw aching. Sam stands up and fetches me a glass of water, and to my embarrassment he has to help me drink.

“What happened, Sam?”

He sits back down, his hands gripping the empty glass so tight his knuckles are white. I stare at him, not sure if he’s real.

“We were almost back to Glory.” He says it like he’s been reciting this speech. “But I kept thinking about you out there, all alone and waiting to die. I knew I couldn’t help you, but Micah would never forgive me if I left your body to the shakes. So I told the Garretts I’d pay if they helped me find you, so I could put you next to Micah.”

His name hits me in the chest, a tight punch that has me curling in on myself. My eyes get hot and blurry, but the tears don’t come.

“It took us a while to find you,” Sam says. “I didn’t know where you’d gone, or if you were still in one piece. We finally thought to check the box, and I saw you lying there, and I thought you were dead.” Sam looks up at me with haunted eyes. “And then you moved. And I thought I’d have to kill you right then.”

My injured hand throbs along to my heartbeat. I don’t understand what he’s telling me.

“Two days you were in that box, Will. Two days past when the sickness should’ve ended you. But when I went to get close”—Sam shakes his head, disbelieving—“you were sweating. Your fever was starting to break.”

“I think . . . I heard your voice,” I say to myself.

“We couldn’t move you far, not in the condition you were in, so we carried you here to the station. Well, Ben and I did the carrying; Curtis couldn’t, on account of his wrist being broke. It’s set up nicely now. We told the guard you fainted from sunstroke.”

“I’m not . . . I’m not going to become a shake?”

“No, Will, you’re not. Once the fever broke, it was only a matter of keeping you breathing. I stuck you full of morphine and waited. Took four days, but you’re finally awake.” Sam smiles at me, tired but triumphant, and it’s clear that he hasn’t slept in those four days.

“I don’t understand.”

Sam laughs hoarsely. “Neither do I, really. But Curtis told me about the well. I think—I think the infection was weaker, on account of the sickness being in the water. It was thinned-like, easier to fight off. And whatever you did to your hand, it was enough to kill the worst of it.”

I look at the white cloth around my palm.

“You made a real mess of it, by the way. I did what I could, but you’ll have a scar.”

“Sam.” I reach out for his hand, even though it sends a jolt of pain through to my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Thank you. You saved my life.”