V. H. King's Ink

Day #9

“Good, you’re awake.”

Gretchen’s voice sounds anything but good.  Sanders blinks in the late afternoon sunlight.  Thick as honey and pure as gold.  If only.  Never trust the travel agents, Sanders reminded themselves.  Never again.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Long enough that we have a problem.”

“Great.”

Sanders tries to shift on the cot before remembering that it sagged low enough to the floor for their hip to meet the dusty wooden plank beneath them.  They let out a grunt, earning a flick to the shoulder.

“Easy,” Gretchen says.  “I have to get this dressing changed, or do you want flies crawling in your stomach?”

“I thought it was leaving your jaw on the floor that meant catching flies.”

“Flies are the least of our problems.”

Gretchen’s voice stays low.  Rough from dehydration.  Sanders blinks at the afternoon again, seeing the deep green canopy of trees out the grimy storehouse window.  Trying to get a better view of the sky and what it holds requires another shift in position.  Gretchen pushes Sanders back down, covering Sanders’ mouth as they hiss. 

“You’re lucky there are needles in here, or else I would have to lance this with a switchblade.”

“You don’t have your switchblade—it slipped when we were crossing the bridge.”

“That’s why I said you’re lucky.”

Sanders bites back any noise they might have made, the effort of keeping quiet burning their throat.  Gretchen sounds like he would rather not know why the needles are in the storehouse in the first place, and Sanders doesn’t blame him.  Sitting still is far from Sanders’ favorite thing to do though, and they squirm anyway.

“You said we had a problem.”

“Yeah, and I’m working on it.”  Gretchen flicked their shoulder again.  “You’ll have another one if you keep distracting me.”

“Humans can function with just one kidney.”

“I’m not even near—“

“Kidding, kidding.  I’ll be good if you promise to talk to me.  Any word on the airwaves?”

‘Word’ was a stretch.  They’d only been able to relay short messages through Morse code, using the switch on the radio to make clicks through the static. 

“Too many storms.”

“Is that what they said, or is that why they haven’t said anything?”

“I’m almost done.  Quit squirming.”

“It was just a splinter.  It’s not that big a deal.”

“I didn’t think that wound was going to heal in the first place,” Gretchen said.  “Everything here is—”

“What, you didn’t believe in me?”

“Take it with a grain of salt and a shred of faith.  Like I said—you’re lucky.”

No, I’m loved. 

Sanders doesn’t say it, but they catch Gretchen’s eye.  His mouth flicks into a smile.  It vanishes a moment later as the heavy grey spills across the sky.  Gretchen shoves the burlap sack with the last of their supplies under the cot and squishes like a sardine beside Sanders.

A cold tremor laces through the flush in Sanders’ chest.  There’s no way Gretchen doesn’t feel it; he squeezes Sanders’ hand briefly and then lets go.  Sanders’ throat tightens and they remind themselves to breathe.  Just don’t look, they think.  Don’t look at a single thing. 

Sweat is already freezing on their temples as the temperature drops.