When I pull back the rug, you’re out from under the car, leaning against it. I smell weed and sweat. I wince as I look down at you. The heat will make sloughed skins of us, like the graveyard of snakes in the shed. Are you ashamed of leaving these creatures like that, of that needless death?
‘I found this,’ I say, sighing. You squint, and I hold the box closer to your glazed eyes. ‘A water purifying straw.’
You should know what it is, you bought it. The box is soft from age, but inside the straw-tube looks brand new.
‘We can use it in the spring in the Separates,’ I say.
‘Youcan.’
I dump some tins of food next to the tyres. ‘Plenty more in the shed. See if you can work out a way to open them. Do something useful.’ Near the camp bed, on the ground next to you, is one of the bigger bottles of water I’d been keeping for emergencies. Empty. ‘You drank all that?’
You smile slyly, nod. Your eyes close against the sun as you try to swat at flies settling on your bloodied head wound.
‘You didn’t ask my permission.’
You blink once slowly, and I kick my boots into your legs.
‘I said, you didn’t ask my—’
‘What are you now, my prison officer?’
I grab your arm and try to yank you to your feet, but you’re like a sack of stones. ‘Come to the Separates with me,’ I say. ‘You need a wash.’
‘I’m staying here.’
At least I think that’s what you say through the slurring. Beneath the flies on your wound, there is pus, yellow as dried egg yolk. I drop you back on the ground, then realise you’ve moved the fox into the shade under the camp bed. I go towards her to check.
‘How is she?’
‘Going to die.’
You crawl across the sand, away from the car and the tins of food, and towards the bed, looking like a drunken gorilla. You heave yourself up, sighing as you rest your head on the dusty canvas.
‘I remember this bed,’ you say. ‘It’s your turn to nurse me now?’ Again, that bark of a laugh. Those bright eyes that won’t stay still.
I can’t drag you to the Separates like this, but it doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere else, either. Like the creatures in the shed, your venom has gone.
‘Fine,’ I say.