Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(51)

“We’ll sew him up. I’ll find something.”

“Oh, man” was all Eddie could manage.

“You’ll get through it.” Lana spoke briskly as she walked across a narrow hall into a disgusting bathroom. She ignored the smell, the stains—more to deal with later—and pried open the rusted medicine cabinet.

“Alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a roll of bandages. No tape. No soap in here. The way this place looks, there may not be any anywhere in here.”

“Scissors, needles, thread,” Max called out. “Somebody sewed. A lot of scraps of material if we need them. I’ll find soap.”

“I brought some if you can’t. In the suitcase.”

They hunted for what they needed. Max scrubbed off a tray to set it all on. Lana washed her hands until they felt raw.

On the bed, Eddie lay quiet, the dog pressed to his side. His face shined, pale and clammy, but stayed cool to the touch. No infection, Lana thought. At least not yet.

She knew she hurt him, cleaning the wound and using the alcohol liberally until she felt, just felt, it held clean. Then she looked at the needle and thread, steeled herself.

“I’ve got this part.” Max touched her shoulder. “I’ve got this. We could all use some food when this is done.”

“I can’t cook in that kitchen until it’s clean and sanitized.”

“I’ll do this, you start on that.”

“All right. Hang in, Eddie.”

He managed a wan smile for her, which faded when she left. “Any way we could skip this part?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Figured. Don’t suppose you’ve got a joint on you.”

“Sorry. But I’m going to put you into a trance. You may feel some, but if it works, it should be like you’re floating above it.”

“You can do that?”

“I think so. It’ll go faster if you trust me.”

“Dude, can’t deny I’d rather have the joint, but if I don’t trust you by now, my ma raised a complete asshole. Don’t insult my ma.”

“Okay. Look at me. Just look at me.”

Within an hour, Max walked back to the kitchen. She’d hauled out garbage, he noted, washed up the counters, the stove top, the floor. The refrigerator door, propped open, revealed a clean if battered interior.

And she stood, hair bundled up, wearing thick, yellow rubber gloves that nearly reached her elbows as she dumped dirty water into the sink.

Love, the strong grip of it, steadied him.

“How is he?”

“Sleeping. He’s going to be fine—a lot of that’s thanks to you.”

Gloves and all, she all but melted into his arms. “I thought he was dead. When I saw the bullet hit him, I thought he was dead. We barely know him, but … he’s part of us now. He’s ours now.”

“He’s ours. You could use some rest. I’ll finish cleaning in here.”

“You can finish cleaning,” she agreed with alacrity and stripped off the gloves. “There was a dead mouse, still in the trap, under the sink.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I had to. The smell…” She shuddered. “I tossed it outside, trap and all. So you can finish cleaning. I’ve sanitized an area and the stove—I used bleach—so I can start cooking. I’ve got the makings, with what we found in that car, for some soup, pretty hearty soup.”

“I thought I loved you before we left New York.”

“Thought?”

“I thought I loved you as much as a man could love, but I was wrong. Every hour, Lana, there’s more.”

“I feel it.” She pressed to him again. “From you and for you. I think it’s part of what keeps building inside me. It’s love, Max.”

She laid her hands on his face, let herself fall into the kiss, into the love.

“I’m scared,” she told him. “So scared, and yet there’s this part of me, inside me, opening and stretching, and it’s not … it’s not afraid.”

“We’ll find our place.”

“Anywhere we’re together. Well.” She drew back, smiled at him. “Maybe not here. Will you do something for me?”

“There’s nothing you could ask I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I should’ve thought of something harder, but could you go get our last bottle of wine? I could use a glass.”

Later, with her soup simmering, and the kitchen as well as the bathroom cleaned to her specifications, Max dragged the garbage she’d heaved out the back door toward a small shed.

No point in having her walk outside, possibly see a rat or mouse or some other creature gnawing at the trash. If they needed to stay for another day, to give Eddie more recovery time, she’d likely insist on cleaning the rest of the damn dump.

He couldn’t blame her.

The door of the shed squealed on bad hinges.

Max found the owner of the house.

He’d been dead at least a couple of weeks, and the vermin had found him.

No need to tell her, no need for her to see. Though he felt a pang, he heaved in the garbage, shut the door. Laying his hand on the door, he offered a blessing and a thanks for the shelter.

“Max!”