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“Where are you?”
“I’m at her apartment, above Magnolia’s Petals. Look, Dad, if you’re not going to help?—”
“I’m calling Dr. Wilkins now. He should be there shortly.”
Then he hangs up.
Half an hour later, there’s a knock on the door.
I’ve been putting a damp cool cloth on Isla’s forehead. She’s mumbling in her sleep, her fingers sometimes twitching. It feels like she’s getting even hotter.
I hurry to answer and see a familiar balding man in his early sixties standing on the doorstep in tennis shorts and a white polo, carrying a medical bag. Dr. Wilkins used to come to the house a lot when I was younger and one (or several) of us Everton kids was sick.
“Caden,” Dr. Wilkins says with a warm smile. “It’s been a long time. Where’s the patient?”
“In here,” I say, stepping back so he can enter the apartment.
He hurries behind the screens and I follow him. He sets his bag on the nightstand and opens it, then removes the cloth and presses the back of his hand to Isla’s forehead.
“Well, that’s a quite fever all right,” he says. Isla moans and her eyelashes flutter. “My dear girl, can you open your mouth for me? That’s it.” He tucks a thermometer under her tongue then wraps a cuff around her arm. “Blood pressure is a little low,” he says.
Dr. Wilkins takes the thermometer out and frowns. “103.3,” he says. “Any other symptoms?”
“She threw up when we got here,” I say. “And she was dizzy. I had to carry her upstairs.”
“I would say she’s got an exceptionally bad case of the flu,” the doctor says. “There’s a strain going around this summer that’s particularly nasty. I had a couple of patients hospitalized with it.”
“Hospitalized?” I cry.
“They were older,” he reassures me. “With weakened immune systems. I think Isla should recover easily but you’ll need to monitor her for the next forty-eight hours. Make sure she gets plenty of fluids. Here.” He takes a bottle of pills from his bag. “Extra strength Tylenol. Two pills every four hours. We want that fever to break. See if you can get her to eat some broth or crackers. Keep her strength up.” He hands me his business card. “If she gets worse, call me.”
“Thank you,” I say as he walks to the door. “Sorry to interrupt your tennis game.”
Dr. Wilkins smiles. “I was getting soundly beaten anyway.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be okay, son. Just keep an eye on her.”
“I will,” I promise.
He leaves and I press my forehead against the back of the door. A faint moan from Isla has me rushing back to her bedside.
“Caden,” she moans. Her eyes are closed again, her breath shallow. “Caden…”
“I’m here,” I say, sitting next to her. Her hand scrabbles at the air and I take it gently, wrapping both my hands around it. Her skin is hot and clammy.
“Don’t leave,” she murmurs.
“I won’t,” I promise her softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ISLA
My skin burns and my head throbs.
Time seems to pass in disorienting dollops. In between moments of fitful waking, I have vivid dreams. I dream that Charlotte is getting married to Sheriff Briggs. I dream that Luke arrives at my apartment riding a rainbow-colored dragon. I dream that my skin peels off in one long slough, like a snake shedding.
But mostly I dream about Caden.
And every time I open my eyes, he’s there.