The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(48)

Back in the guest suite with the doctor who’d patiently waited, Della wedged herself in the rocking chair and cuddled a pillow with an embroidered donkey on the front.

With one eye on her and one on the exit, I submitted to the doctor’s many questions. I steeled myself against allowing him to use something that was cold and hard called a stethoscope and gritted my teeth with discomfort as he poked and prodded my chest and belly then felt under my throat.

I let him touch me more than any other human had before, and it drained me of my final reserves. I was a model patient, up until the end when his forehead furrowed and a strange new light filled his gaze—made worse when he found the brand on my hip and missing finger on my left hand.

He didn’t ask questions but did ask to perform a full examination with worry in his voice. He looked at me as if I was worse off than just an annoying cough.

He already knew more about me from reading my body than I’d ever tell him verbally, and I had no intention of letting him guess more of our story than the lie I’d told the Wilsons.

The lie that Della was my baby sister and we’d been travelling on a bus to visit our cousins in some state far from here. The bus had broken down. And we’d hitch-hiked ever since.

I knew the tale had holes—my backpack was well-used and our gear adapted for life in the wilderness. I knew Della wore clothes meant for boys and her hair, even now, had leaves stuck between the strands.

She looked scruffy.

She looked wild.

Just like me.

But the doctor didn’t give up, murmuring how he’d keep our confidence, that he knew there was more to us than we’d said, and his only interest was to help. He went on and on how he only wanted to ensure our full health and that Della needed examining just as much as I did.

He’d lost all my cooperability at that point.

I’d crossed my arms, did my best to stifle my ever-worsening cough, and told him to leave.

To my surprise, he did, with only a final word that he was around if I changed my mind.

The moment he was gone, I plotted a way to leave this farmhouse and the strangely nice family before they devised another way to delay us.

Only, Patricia Wilson knocked on the guest room door, interrupted my plans, and held out medicine while relaying the news from the doctor that the flu had turned to mild pneumonia, and I needed to start a course of antibiotics immediately so I didn’t get worse.

I argued it was just a cold, but Della cried when Patricia shook her head and listed my symptoms. Each one she got right from the bruised ribs, continuous sensation of being out of breath, painful chest, and the incessant cough.

All of that didn’t scare me—it only made me mad to be so weak—but what did scare me was the knowledge I was no use to Della in my current state. I couldn’t protect her the way I wanted. I couldn’t defend her if I needed.

Despite my desire to be far away from these people, I had to swallow those needs and accept help, for Della’s sake.

I sat heavily on the mattress and grudgingly accepted the first tablet. With my spare arm, I held out my hand for Della to join me.

She threw away the donkey cushion and soared into my embrace.

Clutching her close, I eyed up the glass of water Patricia Wilson pushed toward me, then drank deep, washing the medicine deep into my belly so it might start working faster.

Patricia Wilson smiled kindly at us; her motherly instincts, already pronounced from raising her own kids, latched on to caring for us.

I didn’t get the feeling she was cruel like Mrs Mclary or saw me as dollar signs like my own mother. With her red hair, freckles, and purple frilly apron, the only threat she delivered was her fascination with Della. She couldn’t take her eyes off her, and my hackles rose.

Placing the glass on the nightstand, I stood and said around a cough, “Thank you for breakfast and the medicine, but we really need to go.”

“Yes!” Della popped off the mattress faster than I’d ever seen, flying to the door where she wrenched it open, then promptly slammed it shut again as the girl with brown hair called Cassie peered in, catching my eye.

“Tell her to go away. I want to leave.” Della stomped her foot. “I’ll take care of you, Ren. You’ll get better.”

Patricia Wilson moved toward her and squatted down with a sad shake of her head. “Sweetheart, your brother is sick. He’s lucky he found a doctor. Otherwise, he might’ve gotten a lot worse.” Throwing me a look, she added, “You’re both welcome to stay. In fact, I insist on it until everyone is healthy and no more coughing, okay?”

I didn’t do well with instruction even when it came with a promise of being beaten and starved. And I definitely didn’t do well with it after years of freedom and being solely responsible for myself and Della.

“But I don’t want to stay.” Della pouted, beating my refusal.

Patricia Wilson laughed kindly. “Are you sure? When the weather clears, you can go for a ride with Cassie if you want. Or maybe play snakes and ladders with Liam while having a treat of milk and cookies. He’s about your age and loves new friends. Don’t you want another friend, Della?”

My fingers clenched into a fist, regretting, in my weakened state, that I’d told these people our real names. At least, I’d said our surname was Wild—we had that element of protection—but if they happened to research any news or contact Social Services or decide to call the police…