Page 29 of Camp Bliss
With Josh and some girl I’d never met.
A girl I need to get back to.
“Thanks again, Mom. I’ll talk to you and Dad soon. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Zachary. And you’d better,” she teases. “Call back if you need anything else. Tell Greta to take it easy.”
“I will.”
We end the call, and I tuck the phone into my back pocket before opening the lodge door, and as soon as I do, I slow. Because there’s Greta. Stretched out right where I left her—in her bra and leggings—a cloud of hazelnut curls spilling around her. I lock onto her face, but her eyes are closed. Under the table, Russell lifts his head off his paws, determines I’m no threat, and thumps it down again.
Greta doesn’t move. Is she asleep?
Try as I might to enter quietly, the door rattles as I shut it, and her eyes whip open. She blinks at me.
“You couldn’t find Josh?” She moves to sit up.
“Whoa. Whoa.” I hold up a hand. “No, I haven’t looked for him yet. I just called my mom.” Greta narrows her eyes at me, so I add in a rush, “She’s a nurse.”
“Oh.” She settles back against the cushions and closes her eyes again. “Right. I knew that.” She drapes a hand over her bare belly.
I drop my gaze to the floor and focus on what Mom said. Thermometer. First aid kit.
“She says we should check your temperature. We have a first aid kit. Do you know where it is?”
I look up to catch her nodding. She clears her throat, keeping her eyes shut. She looks like a wilted bouquet. Limp. Drained.
And still beautiful.
Clenching my jaw, I shift my weight on my feet. Remind myself of where I am. OfwhoI am.
“Should be…” She croaks before swallowing and trying again. “Should be in the bathroom cabinet.” With a flop of her hand, Greta gestures toward the lodge’s bathroom.
I don’t wait for more than that. When I flip on the light—in the bathroom with the only working toilet in the whole place—it’s impossible not to remember that night. Greta and her blood. In fact, it feels weirdly like that moment is stitched to this one. But that’s crazy.
Shaking off afrisson, I open the cabinet doors, drop to a squat, and spot the red polyester case with the white cross in the back corner. I unzip the thing and lay it open on the bathroom counter.
The kit is organized like a little book made of clear plastic compartments. Bandages and gauze. Antiseptic wipes and antibacterial cream. I flip through pouches of dressing pads and medical tape, aspirin and Ibuprofen until I get to the back panel and hit the jackpot. Elastic loops secure plastic tweezers, little snub-nosed scissors, a CPR mask, a package of disposable gloves, and a thermometer.
I carry the whole kit back to Greta and push the little button on the digital stick. The thermometer beeps. And then, without thinking, I bring the thing to Greta’s mouth. Like she’ll just open her mouth and take it from me.
Like this is normal for us.
But it’s not. And she rears back with a confused scowl. “Give it here,” she mumbles, yanking the thermometer from me. She pops it into her own mouth, still eyeing me like I’m a weirdo.
“Sorry, I—” But the stick beeps before I can figure out what I’m supposed to say.
Greta pulls it from her mouth and checks the display. “100.7.” Her brows lift in surprise. “Damn. I’m cooked. No wonder I feel like shit.”
I nod. “It’s high, but not dangerous.” Not anymore, anyway. It was probably higher before we got her inside.
Which is pretty scary now that I let myself think about it.
“Mom said you need to take it easy for a while.”
She thumps the plastic thermometer onto the coffee table like her arm weighs fifty pounds. “I don’t think I have much choice.” She sounds exhausted. And she needs to rest.
She’d probably be more comfortable in their cabin, but I don’t feel good about moving her yet. “Can I get you anything?”
