Page 24

24

WARNER

“Which way is the doctor?” is the first sentence Zoey speaks to me since we got back in her truck a half hour ago. The entire drive to town was silent. No talking. No questions. She didn’t even flip on the radio.

Ignoring my growing apprehension, I tried to let Zoey have her space. Her sense of safety.

Hearing her voice now is a soothing balm. At least I still exist a little bit to her. And she hasn’t pulled the truck over and run away screaming.

“You’ll want to head down Main Street until you get to the corner The Wild Rabbit is on, then make a right.”

She nods, bringing the car to a stop at a red light. No other questions come, but I’m jittery with the need to fill the void, and my mouth moves on its own.

“I’ve met most of the nurses and doctors who work at the emergency clinic. They’re all nice. They’ll have you stitched up in no time.”

Zoey blinks over at me, drops her gaze to the arm I clumsily wrapped for her earlier, then flicks her eyes to my chest. “I thought we were going for you.”

The toneless way she speaks ramps up my anxiety, but I cover my worry with overenthusiasm, grinning wide as I reassure her, “Don’t worry about me. This is nothing.” I wave a dismissive hand at the claw marks. “They’ll be healed up in a day or two.”

The light changes, but we don’t move forward. Zoey stares at my chest as if it’s a puzzle she can’t solve.

“Zoey, the light’s green.” I keep my voice gentle, afraid to startle her.

She shakes her head, but still wears a dazed expression as she accelerates.

We get halfway down Main Street before she parallel parks in front of Sawdust and Supplies.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You said you didn’t need to go to the doctor,” she mumbles, eyes on her hands.

“I don’t. But you do. And I’m not sending you there on your own.”

Her forehead drops, coming to rest on the steering wheel. The dejected curve of her body screams exhaustion, and I silently curse myself for not insisting on driving. I thought she’d prefer to have the control of being behind the wheel.

I climb out of the truck, close the door behind me, and circle around to the driver’s side. Zoey barely turns her head when I pull her door open. She stares at me blankly as I unbuckle her seat belt.

“Scoot over.”

She follows my order slowly, as if navigating through quicksand. Once she’s situated on the passenger side, I take over driving the rest of the way.

Our time in the emergency room is surprisingly quick.

Without anything to hide my scratches, the nurse on duty insists on disinfecting and wrapping the wounds before handing over a T-shirt with their logo on it. I let her, especially because getting worked on means I stay close to Zoey as she has her arm stitched up. But with us being the only two at the clinic, we’re treated fast, and it’s not long before I’m driving us to the Gunners’ cabin.

Only once I’ve parked do I realize Zoey has dozed off. I’d like to think she fell asleep because she’s so comfortable in my presence. But this is pure exhaustion.

“Zoey?”

She doesn’t twitch.

I walk around to her side of the car, popping open the door. Her head lolls to the side at an angle that’ll give her major neck pain if she stays in that position much longer. Again, I try to rouse her.

“Zoey? We’re home. You ready to go inside?” Gently, I smooth my hand down her arm.

She stirs, shifts, then settles again on the old leather seat.

Clearly, Zoey is already in bedtime mode.

My fingers smooth stray hairs away from her closed eyes. “Do you mind if I carry you inside? You can keep sleeping.”

I’m not sure if I expect a response or not. I don’t like the idea of hauling her around when she’s likely to wake up, terrified that I’m touching her. But she needs to get inside somehow.

Just as I’ve braced myself to give her a firmer shake, she tilts her head up, eyes opening halfway to reveal blurry, unfocused pupils.

“Don’t eat me,” she mutters just before her hand reaches to clutch at my shirt.

I don’t know whether to laugh or wince. Either way, when her fingers curl in the material at my chest, I take that as acceptance of my offer.

With my supernatural strength, Zoey’s weight is easy to handle. I support her under her knees with one arm and pull the top half of her close to my chest with the other. The shape of her feels exactly right, and I suddenly want to walk away from the house rather than toward it. I could spend the entire night carrying her around, just to enjoy the feel of her luscious body against mine.

But I’ve pushed my luck way past the acceptable marker tonight. If I have any chance of winning her over, the best thing is to get her into bed, where she can sleep off the shock of everything that’s happened.

As we approach the front door, I hear deep, warning barks. Not even Bruce’s call is enough to wake Zoey. She’s completely relaxed in my arms as I fumble with the keys in the lock. The minute the door is open, Bruce is there, sniffing my leg. Once assured I’m a welcome guest, he passes by, trotting into the front yard.

I leave the dog to take care of his business as I head toward the master bedroom, using my superior night vision to navigate without turning on any lights.

The old mattress squeaks as I lay Zoey down on top of the quilt. She turns into the soft surface, eyes never opening.

Maybe I should leave her now, walk out the front door.

But she’s still dressed for hiking, smelling of sweat and blood. I don’t particularly mind the scent, but I imagine Zoey won’t be too comfortable spending the night in her boots, coated in grime.

With businesslike motions, I untie her shoestrings and tug off her boots, setting them on the floor beside the bed. Taking a trip to the bathroom, I soak a washcloth in warm water, then return to Zoey’s side. After wiping her face, neck, and arms, I decide I’ve gone as far as I should, not wanting to cross more lines than I have. There’s an extra quilt at the foot of the bed, which I unfold and drape over Zoey’s prone form.

I’m just tucking in the edges when her eyes flutter open to land on my face.

“Was it a dream?” Her voice comes out in a whisper filled with cracks, and the answer I have to give is all the more painful for it.

“No, it wasn’t.”

She buries her head in the pillow, promptly sliding back into sleep.

And I leave her, heading back into the main room of the cabin. A scratch at the door has me letting Bruce in. I fill his food bowl and refresh his water. There’s a notepad hanging magnetically on the front of the ancient fridge. I write Zoey a message, letting her know I took care of Bruce. My hand pauses before the next sentence. I want to write, Call me when you wake up .

But if she doesn’t call, does that mean we’re done?

I’m selfish, not wanting to give her such an easy out.

We can get through this. It’s not the end.

I write, Feel better.

As I step out into the cool night air, I try not to panic at the memory of Zoey’s vacant stare.

Will she ever see me the way she did before today?

Or am I just a monster now?