He didn’t sound delirious or desperate. A little hoarse still, but it was the scratchy voice of someone getting over a cold. He lay on the bed and looked at me. One of his arms rested over the blanket that covered him, his fingers gripping the edge.
I slid out of the chair, set the laptop aside, and moved to the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” I said. “How do you feel?”
“Like crap.”
I smiled a little. “You should. You’ve had a crappy week.”
He chuckled, then coughed. I almost jumped up and down and started dancing. It was Ben. Ben was back, he hadn’t gone crazy.
“You seem awfully happy about my crappy week.”
“I’m happy to see you awake. You’ve been out of it.”
“Yeah.” He looked away, studying the walls, the ceiling, the blanket covering him. Looking everywhere but at me.
“How much do you remember?” I asked.
He shook his head, meaning that he either didn’t remember anything or he wasn’t going to tell me. I watched him, feeling anxious and motherly, wanting simultaneously to tuck the blankets in tighter, pat his head, bring him a glass of water, and feed him. I wanted him to relax. I wanted to make everything better, and I didn’t have the faintest idea how to do that. So I hovered, perched next to him, on the verge of wringing my hands.
Then he said, his voice flat, “Why did Cormac bring me here?”
“He thought I could help.”
“Why didn’t he just shoot me?”
As far as I knew, Cormac’s guns were still under the bed. This bed. Ben didn’t have to know that. What if Cormac was wrong, what if Ben did have the guts to shoot himself? What would I have to do to stop him? I couldn’t let Ben die. I wouldn’t let him—or Cormac—give up.
I spoke quietly, stiff with frustration. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He went out.”
His gaze focused on me again, finally. A glimmer of the old Ben showed through. “How long have I been out of it?”
“A couple of days.”
“And you two have been stuck here together the whole time?” His face pursed with thoughtfulness. “How’s that working out?”
“He hasn’t killed me yet.”
“He’s not going to kill you, Kitty. On the contrary, I think he’d rather—”
I stood suddenly. “Are you hungry? Of course you’re hungry, you haven’t eaten in two days.”
Footsteps pounded up the porch then. Ben looked over to the next room at the same time I did, and his hand clenched on the blanket. Slowly, I went to the front room.
The door slammed open, and Cormac stood there. He carried a rifle.
“You have a freezer, right?” he said.
“Huh?” I blinked, trying to put his question into context. I failed. “Yeah. Why?”
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the outside.
I went to the door and looked out. There, in the middle of the clearing in front of the cabin, lay a dead deer. Just flopped there, legs stiff and neck arced back. No antlers. I couldn’t see blood, but I could smell it. Still cooling. Freshly killed. My stomach rumbled, and I fiercely ignored it.