He pointed at a barstool. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
It seemed as though he was gone forever, and she folded her arms on the counter and laid her heavy head on them. Her skin was hot. A gentle hand brushed the hair from her forehead, and something firm passed over it. A sharp intake of breath followed by, “Shit! You’re burning up.” Apparently, the something firm had been a thermometer.
Quinn grasped her jelly arms and somehow tugged her upright. But she was so, so tired. All she wanted to do was collapse and sleep.
“Sarah,” he said softly. “When was the last time you had anything to drink?”
“Bourbon and Coke,” she mumbled.
“Nothing after that? No water?”
She began to shake her head, stopped, and winced. “Ow. No, nothing.”
“Sweetheart, we need to get some fluids in you.”
A little snort escaped her. “You call everyone ‘sweetheart.’ I’m not everyone. I’m Sunshine.”
He frowned at her as he twisted a cap off a bottle and poured clear yellow liquid into a cup.
“Are you mad at me?” she whimpered. God, she must have been really wasted. Her emotions were on the point of a pendulum, swinging wildly from side to side. She felt more drunk now than when they’d been drinking.
“No, Sunshine. I’m not mad at you. Here, drink this.” He pressed a cool cup to her lips.
She took a few sips and pushed it away. “Blech. What is that?”
“Gatorade. Be a good girl and take a few more sips for me. Then I want you to swallow some ibuprofen.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” Her words came out in a slur.
She couldn’t remember drinking any more Gatorade, but she was vaguely aware of being carried in steely arms and placed gently on her bed. The blanket had been taken off her shoulders, and Archer was pressing his wet nose against her hand. Cold. She was so cold, and her body felt as though her joints were being separated on a rack. Covers were tugged over her. Thick, warm fingers raked through her hair, pushing it off her forehead, before settling on her cheek. “Hey,” a deep voice whispered, “you get some sleep. I’ll check on you in a bit, okay? In the meantime, if you need anything, you call or text me. Got that?”
“Mmph.”
She slipped into a dark, chilly whirlpool.
Damn it to hell! Why had he gone to the grocery store? The liquor store? He could have had that shit delivered, but no, he just had to get out. Quinn had no doubt he’d brought COVID home and given it to Sarah. Icy tendrils of fear wrapped around his spine like bindweed. If he’d given it to Sarah, who looked all kinds of sick, he’d exposed his mom too.
He paced his room, his head pounding and his chest tightly banded. Four thirty in the morning. His mom would be up soon. He jogged into the kitchen and tore through every cleaner in the utility room, grabbing anything that blared “disinfectant” or “bleach.” Then he went to work cleaning, scrubbing, scouring—no easy feat for a guy with an arm in a sling who’d never been any good at cleaning in the first place. He stopped long enough to check on Sarah, who slept under Archer’s watchful eye. Her fever had dropped a few degrees, and Quinn breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’ll come get me if she needs anything, won’t you, buddy?”
The dog nodded once. Actually nodded. Quinn didn’t question the phenomenon anymore, he simply believed. And honestly, leaving Sarah in her room was easier to do with Archer on duty.
Back in the kitchen, he brewed coffee and went to work disinfecting light switches, door latches, handrails.
“What are you doing?”
He whirled to find his mom, in a robe, giving him a puzzled look. “Son, you don’t look so good. And what happened to your arm?” She started toward him, and he backed away.
He held up a warning hand. “Six feet, Mom. Sarah’s sick. I’m pretty sure I gave it to her, and I don’t want you catching it.”
His mom stopped and gawped at him. “Sarah’s sick? Just what did you give her?”
“I’m pretty sure I brought COVID home. She came down with it last night. Cough, fever, chills. She’s sleeping last I checked, but she didn’t sound so good. Right now I’m disinfecting everything. I’ll take care of you while Sarah’s under the weather, but you and I need to stay away from each other.”
His mother folded her arms across her chest. “I can take care of myself.” She held up her own warning hand when he began to protest. Funny, he hadn’t noticed it before, but they shared similar mannerisms. “I’m not just saying that to be stubborn, Quinnie. I’m moving much easier, and I’m capable of getting my own meals and helping with yours. I’ll make sure Archer gets outside and has what he needs. Your job is to take care of Sarah.” This is when it struck him his mom was standing, not sitting in her wheelchair, and had been for the last week. His good shoulder dropped an inch or two as some of his tension lifted.
“Now tell me what happened to your shoulder,” she said.
He gave her the condensed, family-friendly version of last night’s fall—the one with no mention of him holding Sarah or her pushing him away.
“I’m going to get Archer,” he said.
She nodded. “Good. I’ll let him out and get him fed.”
When he went back to Sarah’s room, she was struggling to sit up. Her covers were thrown back, and her sweats were in a pile beside the bed, leaving her in a skimpy tank and shorts.
“What are you doing?” he barked.
Wide eyes darted to his. “Getting up? I need to pee.”
“Why’d you take your clothes off? Why aren’t you covered up?”
She blinked at him. “I’m burning up, that’s why.” Another beat, and she added, “If I felt better, I’d laugh at the irony of this situation.
