I still didn’t move. We were in the 331st Year of Hunger now. Maybe they’d rename it the Year of Freezing, Then Burning, And Mostly Running for Your Life. After me, of course.
“My second favorite story is the Year of Dreams, when we began trying to understand the hot mud pits and everyone started hallucinating from inhaling the fumes around one of them.” He flipped through the pages of the book, steady-handed, sure of himself. I tried not to be envious of his lack of burns. “Let’s see. Year of Dance.” He turned a few more pages. “Year of Dreams.” His voice pitched lower as he read aloud. “‘We set out on an expedition to make sure the geothermal features around Heart weren’t immediately dangerous. Of course, we were quite surprised at what we discovered. . . .’”
He continued to read for another hour, changing his voice to match the mood of the passage. He was good at this, and I’d never been read to before. The way he spoke drew me in until finally I relaxed.
The pain eased.
I hovered in the misty place between waking and sleeping, half dreaming of a deep humming. Then the fire in my hands returned, and when I groaned and opened my eyes, the only sound was the scratch of pen on paper.
“Did I wake you?” Sam looked up from scribbling in a book.
Yes. “No.” It didn’t matter. My hands wouldn’t stop hurting long enough for me to rest well.
I was lying on the bed, though I didn’t remember moving. Had he carried me? He’d definitely pulled the blankets over me. My burns hurt too much to grasp the thick wool.
There was a terrifying thought. What happened when I had to use the washroom? I steeled myself and considered my hands; the left one wasn’t quite as bad. I could suffer a little pain to salvage any remaining dignity.
Reassured, I glanced at Sam again, who’d gone back to writing in his book. “What are you doing?”
His pen hesitated over the paper, like I’d made him lose his place.
I shouldn’t have asked. I knew better, but my hands—
“Writing notes.” He blew on the ink, closed the book, and set everything aside. “Would you like to read more?”
“Only if you want.” When he looked away, I tried to sit up. But every time I used my elbows to push myself, they jabbed onto the blanket. I kept pinning myself to the bed. Refusing to let a stupid blanket win, I kicked to move it downward. With it out of my way, I pushed again with my elbows. I’d miscalculated and the same problem—the blanket—threw me back down.
I slapped the bed to keep my balance—
An inferno surged through my arm and I screamed, clutching my hand against my chest.
Sam was at my side in an instant, arms encircling me.
Trapped. I yelled and fought to escape, but he wouldn’t let go. Unable to use my hands to push, I tried to bite him. Mouthful of wool. An ugly sob escaped.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, shaking like he could be anywhere near as upset about this as me. “I’m sorry.”
This wasn’t trapping me. It was . . . hugging? I’d seen Li embrace her friends during the rare visit. No one hugged me, of course. Apparently no one had told Sam.
When he finished hugging me, he checked my palm for new damage. I’d been lucky. “Take these.” He retrieved a handful of pills from a small table and offered water to wash them down. “Tell me if you need anything else.”
I swallowed the pills. “Okay.”
He met my eyes, seemed to search me. “You have to tell me. Don’t make me guess.”
I lowered my gaze first. “Okay.”
He didn’t believe me. It was the same expression Li used when she didn’t think I’d actually cleaned the cavies’ cages, or turned the compost pile. But he hadn’t asked me to do chores, just wanted me to tell him if I needed anything.
Okay. If I needed anything, I would tell him.
“Do you want to read more?” he asked after a few moments of sitting unnervingly close.
I nodded.
He sighed and freed me from the blankets. “This is already going to be a difficult recovery for you, but it doesn’t have to be terrible. Tell me things you want, too.”
Like that would ever happen.
Over the next few days, Sam told stories until his voice grew hoarse. He reminisced about learning stone carving, textile arts, glassblowing, carpentry, and metalworking. He’d spent lifetimes farming and raising livestock, learning everything he could.
He told me all about the geysers and hot springs around Heart, the desert lands southwest of Range, and the ocean beyond that. I couldn’t even fathom the ocean.
I liked listening to him, and he’d stopped asking me to tell him if there was anything I needed. At least, I thought I was safe until he closed the book he’d been reading from and said, “I can’t talk anymore.”
He did sound rougher, but I tried not to feel guilty, since I’d never actually asked him to talk until he lost his voice.
“Will—” I swallowed and tried again. “Will you turn the pages so I can read to myself?” The weight of his regard settled like fog. “Please,” I whispered.
“No.”
My heart sank. I shouldn’t have asked.