Page 16

Grav awakened to find Laurel slumped over his bed, holding his hand.

I’m still alive!

He had vague recollections of her bathing his forehead, stroking his head. Whenever he’d awakened, she was there. He had solid memories of her insisting he swallow some nasty, syrupy concoction, the sweetness unable to mask the underlying bitterness. He trusted her, believed she was doing her best to help him.

His arm felt heavy as he raised it to stroke her hair. Soft strands clung to his hand.

Her head shot up. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Like I was run over by a ground crawler—so, better.” He cracked a smile.

“Let me take your temperature.” She pressed a device to his forehead. “Still 101. Maybe that’s normal for you.” She bit her lip. “Maybe the worst is over.”

“I like to think I’ve avoided the worst.” The worst was death.

“You sound a little better.”

She sounded hoarse and stuffy. He scanned her face. She looked exhausted. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I got a little touch of what you have—but I’m fine!”

Alarmed, he eyed her. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. The virus doesn’t affect me the way it did you. Now that you’re awake, can I get you anything?”

“Could I have a drink?”

“Of course!” She picked up the water vessel. “It’s empty. I’ll have to refill it. I’ll be right back.” She left to get the water.

He flung off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up, and his knees almost buckled. His legs weren’t strong enough to support him. He staggered the two steps to the commode and relieved himself.

Legs wobbling, he turned to get into bed.

Laurel returned. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I had to urinate.”

“You peed?”

“Buckets,” he said.

“That’s great!” She smiled for the first time.

“If you say so.” He did feel better though. But it was a bigger relief to collapse into bed. He rolled onto an elbow when she handed him the water. Thirstier than he’d realized, he drank half of it. “My throat isn’t so sore anymore,” he said.

“You seem much stronger, too.”

“I do?” He felt incredibly weak.

“Two days ago, you couldn’t have gotten out of bed.”

“I’ve been sick for two days?”

“Four. You sneezed for the first time four days ago.”

“Four days?”

She nodded. “Do you remember me putting bags of cold water under your arms?”

“Vaguely.” Reality and dreams had become confused.

“That was the day after you sneezed for the first time. Your temperature was sky-high—at least by human standards. I brought it down with the cold water, but you were pretty much out of it after that. You seemed incoherent a lot of the time, rambling on and on, repeating the same thing.”

“What did I say?”

“No idea. You were talking in your language.”

“Did I apologize to you, or did I dream it?” Certain he would die, he’d desperately needed to convey how he felt.

“You did do that.” She sat in the chair. “We can talk about this when you’re feeling better. For now, just understand that I don’t hold you responsible for the massacre, but I can’t forgive those who are. An apology can’t begin to compensate for what happened.”

“I did not mean to imply that it did.” He could feel a cough coming on and took a drink of water. “I need you to know I do not share my fellow Progg’s sentiments. I care deeply for you, Laurel.” He had to tell her. It had almost been too late.

“I care for you, too. I was so worried about you.”

He started to reply, but then a paroxysm of coughing shook him. When it subsided, he had a mouthful of revolting mucus.

“Here.” She pressed a soft paper into his hand, and he spit into it.

“You’ll cough for the next few days. It seems to be productive—you’re expelling mucus, so that’s good. I’ll get you some tea with honey. That should help. At night, I can give you a cough suppressant so you can get some sleep, but in general, it’s better to expel the phlegm, and I’m still hesitant to give you human drugs. I don’t know if they helped you—or if you survived despite them.” She stood up. “I’ll go brew the tea.”

“Could I get something to eat?”

“Of course!” Her face lit up like he’d paid her a wonderful compliment.

“That pleases you?”

“It’s another sign you’re getting better. I’ll get it right now.” She left.

His face split into a grin. I care about you, too. Those simple words meant the world to him. But would it be enough to make her want him to stay?

She returned with a hot drink. “Here’s the tea. I’m heating up a lentil soup for you.”

The soothing tea tasted much better than the syrupy stuff she’d poured down his throat. By the time he finished it, she had the soup ready.

It was delicious.

He tried to stay awake, but fatigue claimed him, and he fell asleep. He awakened once but saw Laurel asleep in her bed, so he rolled over and drifted off again.

* * * *

The next day, he felt much stronger, although still weak and shaky and prone to fits of coughing. However, he got up, and, under Laurel’s watchful eye, walked around. He helped her heat their meals, and they played Concentration , an easy game due to his keen memory.

They played more poker, with him winning every hand. “Are you cheating?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“No.” He didn’t explain. He liked winning. It went against his nature to throw a competition. But he relished spending time with her, engaging with her, and suspected she wouldn’t play with him if she knew she’d never beat him at memory games. She taught him to play backgammon, and they tied, 1-1. But then he’d started to flag, and she was too, so they went to take a nap.

* * * *

“How are you feeling?” she asked the following morning.

He considered faking a relapse. He’d awakened, if not good as new, at least more robust and energetic. The coughing had tapered off, and he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. By tomorrow, he’d be well enough to leave. He did not look forward to his departure.

“Better. How about you?” He scanned her face. She appeared healthier, too.

“I’m good.” She paused. “You’ll be able to leave soon, I guess? Find and reconnect with your people?”

“Yeah.” Ask me to stay.

“Any idea when?”

He didn’t want to go. She gladdened his heart. Lifted his mood. Her smiles and laughter brought him joy; the most casual touch was bliss. She’d tended to him during his illness, and one of his biggest regrets was that he’d been unaware of her touch most of the time.

Although he feared dying, he’d go through it all over again, if it would buy more time with her. He’d rather live another week deathly ill with her than a healthy lifetime without her.

He didn’t know if he would like other humans, but he preferred her company over that of his own people.

But she didn’t feel the same.

“Tomorrow,” he replied.

“Your bag is packed and ready to go, but I’ll add some extra rations and some cleansing wipes.” She pivoted and marched out of the room.

* * * *

Laurel fled to the supply room before she burst into tears.

She’d become attached to the spikey-haired alien lug with the blue-blue eyes. She didn’t want him to leave. She’d tried to feel him out, see if he’d be receptive to staying, but his emphatic answers showed he was eager to go.

She grabbed packets of wet wipes and vegetarian meals from the tubs and dashed away tears with the back of her hand.

She thought they’d become close. But not close enough apparently for him to abandon his people and stay with her.

How can I blame him? He might like me a little, but that doesn’t mean he’d like other humans—or that they would like him. If he stayed with her, she’d be condemning him to a life of distrust and hostility. Of course, he would wish to rejoin his own people.

Would she be willing to live among the Progg to be with him?

No. So, how could she fault his choice?

But couldn’t he show some regret, some ambivalence? I wouldn’t be like, “Hey, it’s been real. Thanks for the memories,” and walk away like he meant nothing.

God, I’m going to miss him.

She blew her nose on a tissue. At least I can blame my red eyes and runny nose on the cold. Squaring her shoulders, she pasted on her best chill nurse-face and left the supply chamber. If she only had one more day with him, she didn’t want to miss a second.