The remainder of the day slipped from the clock like water from a punctured bottle. Each time Quinn looked at it, another hour had passed. He’d gone for a run after breakfast, unable to stomach the sweet perfume of pancakes that the others huddled around in the dining room, the spring air whisking away a layer of dread as he jogged into it.
He’d run down the long winding drive, its blacktop clear of snow and ice now, the vestiges of winter melting in shaded alcoves beneath heavy pines. He passed Graham’s, Mallory’s, and Foster’s modest homes, each cut into a private yard that branched from the main drive. Their lawns weren’t yet green, but soon Foster’s plow truck would be stored away for the summer in exchange for the zero-turn lawnmower that never seemed to stop running in the warm season.
After a mile twisting through the dense forest of the property, the wrought-iron gate came into view, its top spiked with wicked points, a warning to anyone who contemplated climbing over to see what was on the other side. Quinn had slowed and stopped before the twelve-foot-high spokes, gazing up at them. He moved closer and placed his chilled hands on their bases, the steel so cold he pulled his palms away, watching to see if they would stick. The paved county road lay beyond the gate. It curved into sight to the north and then continued straight south, its centerline worn to a faded suggestion. No cars passed while he stood there, gazing at the road away from the place he’d always known. On other days when vehicles had come by, he’d always turned his face away even though at the speed they traveled, no one would have been able to see his features.
When he’d returned to the house, the main level was quiet except for soft music playing in the kitchen from Graham’s iPod. He showered and dressed in clean clothes before going to his father’s bedroom. Teresa was there beside the bed, a washcloth in one hand that she passed over James’s face, wiping away the sweat that sprung up almost as soon as the cool moisture dried.
“How is he?” Quinn asked, coming closer.
“The fever’s still there, but he’s resting now. He didn’t want any food but drank some ice-water.”
“Good. You can take a break. I’ll sit with him,” Quinn said, motioning to the copy of Watership Down he held in one hand.
Teresa nodded. “Thanks, I think I’ll lie down. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Quinn sat in the chair pulled close to the side of the bed and studied his father’s face. Sweat beaded and ran down from his temples, collecting in the towel Teresa had placed over his pillow. His arms lay motionless on the light blanket draped over him, and his breath came in slow, grating wheezes. Quinn reached out and took one of his hands, starting at the temperature of his skin.
It was freezing.
James moaned in his sleep, only his eyes moving beneath his closed lids. Quinn sat back, staring across the dim space of the room to where the curtains blocked out the bright day, before opening the book and beginning to read.
~
He woke with a start as the book slid from his grasp and fell to the floor. The room was darker, the slim shaft of sunlight that cut in between the drapes from before was gone, replaced by a sullen glow that barely defined the large windows behind them.