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“Here, take this,” Laurel said.

Grav could barely sit up to take the over-the-counter cold medicine before sinking exhausted onto the pillow. He huddled under three blankets, shivering and shuddering. She had no idea what to do for him other than treat the symptoms and hope she didn’t kill him with the meds. Whatever he had—cold, flu—raged through his system like Progg marching through a defenseless town.

Grav had caught “the plague,” possibly the same virus that had killed the admiral.

Yesterday morning when he’d sneezed, she’d tried not to get too concerned, telling herself and him that a sneeze was just a sneeze, but he’d also complained of a sore throat, so she’d insisted he stay for another day. This morning, he had no appetite, but she tried to keep him hydrated with water, orange juice from a mix, and vegetable broth.

Concerned how the meds would affect his system, she’d treated him homeopathically at first, giving him honey for the sore throat and employing steam from a heated kettle for the nasal congestion.

It hadn’t helped, and he’d worsened so quickly she could no longer fool herself that his condition was minor. By nightfall, she’d resorted to over-the-counter meds, lozenges for the sore throat, a decongestant for the stuffiness. Still wary of a possible adverse reaction to foreign chemicals, she resisted administering an all-in-one cold remedy because if an ingredient was harmful to his biochemistry, she needed to know which one so she could stop it.

By this morning, he’d become lethargic, his fatigue so great he could barely move. His skin had turned ashen. Chills wracked his body. He shivered and shuddered so violently she feared he was having convulsions at first. His condition serious, there was nothing left to lose, so she dosed him with every cold and flu medicine in her pharmaceutical arsenal.

She’d never seen cold symptoms like this. Of course, she’d only been guessing that was what the admiral had, so she had no way to know what Grav suffered from.

But she knew who’d infected him—the man who’d attacked her.

In hindsight, it was clear he’d been sick. She remembered his nasal voice, the sneeze, and the coughing fit that had enabled her to knock the gun from his hand. Then Grav dragged him off her, and later handled the pack and everything the man had touched.

I don’t want to lose you. Please, don’t die. Please, don’t die. Fight, Grav, fight!

She couldn’t stand that he might die because he’d rescued her.

Sitting by his bed, she pressed her hand to his forehead.

“Your hand feels good,” he murmured, not opening his eyes.

She leaned over and touched her lips to his forehead.

“That feels better.” His mouth curved into a slight smile.

“You feel a little…warm,” she said. Burning hot.

“I feel hot and cold.” He shivered.

“I’m going to take your temperature.” She swiped the forehead thermometer against his skin.

A hundred and five point one! That can’t be right.

These forehead thermometers aren’t that accurate.

But they weren’t usually that far off.

“This isn’t reading you accurately.” She maintained a level tone. “I’ll try another kind.”

Adrenalin spiking, she retrieved the oral digital thermometer. “Put this under your tongue. Keep your mouth closed.”

She waited the requisite time then read it.

The same. A hundred and five point one.

A temp that high could lead to brain damage and organ failure. But her patient wasn’t human. “What’s a normal body temperature for you?” She used her calmest nursing voice, trying not to reveal her alarm.

“I don’t know.”

Maybe Progg ran hot. Maybe one oh five was normal.

Except the admiral and others had died from a “cold.” What if they’d died of organ failure caused by fever? “Your temperature seems a little elevated. I’m going to try to lower it.”

How? How? The acetaminophen she’d been giving him for body aches hadn’t reduced the fever. Try ibuprofen? She gave him a tablet to take.

I wish I had ice!

She wished they’d stayed at the house. Not that she could do any more there than she could here. It would take a while to freeze water. Even the hospital would have been a bust. Auxiliary power had long since fizzled and without electricity to power the medical equipment, it was just a big building with a lot of beds. The only benefit to the hospital would be the availability of oxygen if he had trouble breathing—

Don’t think that!

Focus on the immediate need. I have to get his fever down. If this had happened right after the ice storm, she could have broken ice off the trees or chipped it out of the creek.

The creek! After the big freeze with the weather still chilly, the water in the creek should be cold.

“I’m going out for a little bit. I won’t be long.” Please don’t die while I’m gone. Please don’t die at all.

He coughed. “Okay.”

She donned her coat and stuffed some plastic zipper bags in the pocket. She sprinted the half mile to the creek. Icy-cold. Perfect! She filled the bags, pressed them closed, and ran to the cave, arriving out of breath, her chest tight.

A mile run would have been easy-peasy before the invasion, but after a year of inactivity, her physical fitness had suffered. But her gasps and chest tightness were caused by more than a lack of fitness. This morning, she’d awakened with the start of a sore throat and could tell a cold was coming on. But her situation wasn’t dire.

She tore off her coat and dashed to her patient. His skin, already ashen, had gone grayer than gray, and he lay deadly still.

“Oh, my god! Grav!” She shook his shoulder.

He groaned and opened his eyes.

Her knees wobbled, and she blinked tears of relief.

“Sorry, I had to wake you.” She held up the water-filled bags. “Let’s put these under your arms to help lower your body temperature.”

Major blood vessels were located under the skin in the armpit—in humans. An ice pack under the arm helped to dissipate the heat. Hopefully his vascular anatomy was similar.

She pulled back the covers, removing two of them all together. He’d complained of chills earlier and shivered like he was freezing, but if he had a fever, a ton of blankets would lock in the heat.

She placed a bag under each arm.

He hissed. “It’s cold!”

“I’m sorry. We need to try this.” She re-covered him with a single blanket. “Go to sleep.”

She kept the forehead thermometer handy. It had read the same as the oral one, and she could monitor his temp without waking him. After fifteen minutes, she retook his temperature. It had inched up a fraction. Shit.

“Laurel?” Fever-bright, glassy blue-blue eyes sought hers.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I’m sorry.” His head moved on the pillow. “An apology is…inadequate, can’t atone…for the devastating loss, but I am truly, truly sorry…for what my people did to your people and for the part I played.”

“You’re right—it can’t.” Anger and grief mingled and roiled. Step on someone’s foot, steal from them, even cheat on a spouse—those acts could be forgiven. Genocide was unforgiveable. Perhaps hundreds of years in the future when the death and devastation had faded into a historical footnote, there could be redemption and forgiveness. But not when the agony was fresh and raw.

However, she had forgiven Grav for being a Progg—because she believed in his innocence, that he hadn’t so much as lifted a hand to another person. Throughout history, soldiers in wartime had been known to commit atrocities, slaughtering innocent women and children. Did that make the entire military guilty? Every individual from that country? No. For that reason, she could forgive Grav.

And she recognized the unsaid message. He was saying goodbye.

“I’m not giving up,” she said. “And you shouldn’t either.”

He didn’t hear. He’d already fallen asleep.

Throughout the day, she remained at his bedside, leaving only to get water from the creek. Besides the cold packs, she bathed his face and draped wet cloths over his forehead.

When he awakened—usually from the hacking cough—she would try to get him to drink, but he would only take a few sips. She took his temperature at regular intervals, and dosed him with cold and flu medicine, but mostly she held his hand and stroked his bristly head. Even his hair seemed ill—limp, flat, more coarse than bristly.

The fever broke after several hours, dipping by a half degree, and continuing to ease downward until it plateaued at 101. She removed the ice-water bags then to make him more comfortable but continued to monitor his temp.

She tried to take heart from the fever reduction, but as it was the only sign of improvement, she feared the virus still rampaged, doing who-knew-what to his body.

It was like the old joke: The treatment was a success, but the patient died.

He hadn’t urinated all day. So ashen, he resembled a corpse. His breathing labored; she didn’t need the stethoscope to hear the congestion in his lungs.

She dosed herself with cold medicine. She felt like shit, but he needed her, and she could tell her situation was a typical cold. She’d had lesser ones, and she’d experienced much worse.

Ten days ago, she would have cheered at his suffering, prayed for his death so she could mark a point on the cosmic scoresheet for humanity. She couldn’t do that now. She owed her life to him, but, setting that aside, she’d come to understand him a little bit, to care about him. To like him.

When, if , he died, she would grieve. Until the invasion, she’d been an idealist, one who focused on the good in people. She’d never been na?ve—at least she didn’t think so. She’d been aware criminals and sociopaths committed horrible, depraved acts. However, she hadn’t believed, as some did, that bad acts were the result of evil , a profound irredeemably wicked supernatural force.

Until the Progg came.

The invasion that killed billions and devastated a civilization had shattered her convictions. Only evil could explain the global massacre.

Grav, in his small way, had begun to restore her core convictions. He was decent. Others of his kind must be, too. He couldn’t be the lone exception. His decency had given her hope, shining a pinpoint of light in a bleak, dark existence.

If he died, so would hope.