“Oh, Rose.” My heart broke to hear this, and no, I don’t know why my girlfriend being bitten by bedbugs was any more tragic than her getting shot in the stomach. But it was. Or maybe what was most tragic was that she was going to have to stay in those bug-infested blankets until help came. I had no way of making her current situation better. And her situation, as it was, really sucked.
Bringing the lantern closer, I inspected the front side of her wound first. The dressing that had been used made my mouth go watery. Tomás and Shelby must’ve done it; it was fresh still, not yet soaked with blood, but a torn piece of a cotton T-shirt was wadded against Rose’s skin, held in place by duct tape. The shirt looked like it was the cleanest they could have found, but that wasn’t saying much. I hesitated, not wanting to hurt her by messing with it.
“Go on,” she said weakly. “Tell me how it’s doing.”
With the edge of my thumb, I worried the tape back, peeling it off with as much care as I could before lifting the T-shirt. I bit down on my lip. The entry wound was smaller than I would’ve thought, a neat hole crusted with dried blood and a bit of purple bruising around the edges. The area was puffy, too, but not alarmingly so. It was as if Rose’s own softness had expanded to keep her whole.
“How’s it look?” she asked.
“Pretty good, considering.”
“The other side hurts more.” She rolled forward while I lifted her shirt up in the back, and this time I had to use both hands to pull off the tape. I inhaled sharply. It wasn’t at all what I expected—or hoped—to find. Just the opposite. The exit wound wasn’t neat or tidy; it was horrible, a brutal mess of flesh resembling nothing more than ground meat. Worse still, the swelling on that side wasn’t just puffy, but red, inflamed. Oozy, too. I cupped my hand against the small of her back, close to the wound, and felt the heat pulsing from within. Rose whimpered. I pulled her shirt down.
My heart was pounding.
“Ben?” she said.
“Huh?”
“How’s Archie? Did he come back with you?”
I hesitated. “No.”
“Where is he?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes,” she said.
So I told her the truth. I owed her that. I’m not sure what I expected after her brother’s reaction. Grief, perhaps. Or sorrow. Maybe even guilt.
But I was a poor predictor of emotions. Because when I told Rose about how Archie had chosen to face certain death walking into a blizzard rather than give up his search for a fortune that was never his to begin with, she didn’t shed a tear. She didn’t even look sad—walking the walk, I suppose, on her assertion that death wasn’t something to feel all that terrible about.
“I don’t think he could’ve survived out there in the snow. Not overnight,” I said, wanting her to know for sure how final his decision had been.
“But he was still looking for the money, wasn’t he? He never gave up?”
“No, he never gave up.”
Rose, ill as she was, remained content at my reassurance. Not happy or joyful, but there was satisfaction in her eyes, a certain strength against the pain. I wanted to ask why, what it was she knew about Archie that made her feel that way. And I also wanted to ask why she’d confided in him—but not me—about our relationship.
But I didn’t.
Instead I pressed my lips together and set to work cleaning and changing her wounds with the first aid kit I’d brought down from the meadow. Whatever had been used already had set loose an infection inside of Rose, all that heat and ooze. Holding the bottle of antiseptic over her back, I knew it would sting, worse than when I’d cleaned her finger, and I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to pour it on her and be the one to hurt her. But I had no choice. So rather than telling her what I was going to do, I just dumped it on her ruined flesh as fast as I could.
Rose shrieked and leapt, and the wounded look she gave me wasn’t one of betrayal but disbelief. I didn’t stop, though, not even when tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Not even when she shrieked again as I ripped off the remaining duct tape and hurried to pack the wounds with fresh gauze and ointment. I said nothing to acknowledge the pain I was causing her, because it was for her own good and because I didn’t want to worry her about it ahead of time.
When I was finished, she lay back to stare up at the ceiling and refused to look at me. Rose’s tears continued to fall, hot and silent, and that was the moment I should’ve apologized—not for doing what needed to be done, but for being so cowardly about it. For letting fear guide my actions over love. But I didn’t. I didn’t say a word to comfort her or reassure her or let her know my love was unconditional, no matter what she’d done or why. I said nothing. And looking back, if there’s one thing I truly am sorry for, well then, I guess that would be it.
41.
SHELBY ACCOSTED ME the minute I stepped out of the tent, turning sick and dizzy in the chilled air. Flurries were coming down again. Light ones, but still.
“Can we talk?” she asked me.
“I’m getting Rose something to eat.”
“This is about Rose.” She waved me with her, walking farther into the forest, her shoes crunching on snow. I followed as best I could, the blond bounce of her hair, but not only were Shelby’s legs somehow longer than mine, my joints had stiffened up while I’d been in the tent and my shoulder ached with every motion. My steps were halting, fawn weak and wobbly.
“Hey, slow down.” I gasped.
A frown etched Shelby’s face as she looked back at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “My shoulder’s busted. I don’t feel too good.”
She nodded and turned around. Waited for me to prop myself against a tree and catch my breath. “Well, I wanted to show you this.”
“Show me what?”
Shelby pulled the bottle of Maggie’s Percocet from her windbreaker pocket. Held it in her scratched-up hands.
I furrowed my brow. “Why do you have those? Isn’t Rose taking them?”
“Yeah, she is.”
“They help with her pain, right? She’s in a lot of pain.”
“They do help. But . . .”
“But what?”
“The bottle says to take one or two every six to eight hours.”
“Right.”
Shelby gave me a pointed look. “This morning she took four.”
“All at once?”
She nodded. “I left the bottle in there with her after I’d already given her one. There were twelve more at that point. I know that. I was counting to see how many days they’d last, just in case we’re stuck here for a while. Then Tomás started calling for me because he needed help keeping the fire going while trying to dry all those wet clothes. He’s not very organized, by the way. Anyway, when I went back in she’d passed out with the bottle in her hand so I counted again. There were only nine.”
“But she’s okay? It was just an accident?”
Shelby licked her chapped lips. “I don’t know what it was. I just know she’s really hurting. Worse than she’ll say. But I’ve been holding on to the pills ever since. Unless you want to.”
“Sure.” I took them from her, slid them into my pants. “Thanks, Shelby.”
“Yeah.”