He swiveled suddenly, as coordinated as the cougar she’d seen at the lake, and tossed something at her. She almost dropped the knife in her attempt to catch the soft bundle.
His eyes widened as he caught sight of the blade. And then a grin spread across his ruddy face.
“It’s not what you think.”
She held up two pieces of clothing. Worn, black faded to gray—a pair of loose drawstring pants and a baggy thermal shirt.
“For you to change into. After.”
He nodded at the tarps hanging behind her. “There’s a makeshift shower in there. Water’s cold, I’m afraid. No disrespect, but I’m thinking it’s been a while.” Her cheeks flamed. Then he pointed to a box spilling more clothes on the floor. “Underwear and so on in there.” And now she could have sworn he blushed, but the light was pretty poor. “They’re secondhand, but clean.”
He took a step toward her, his fingers spread out in a non-threatening pose.
She held her ground. “What do you want?”
“Can you put the knife down, Lucy?” He had stopped moving toward her, and his voice was gentle. She felt tears pricking at her eyelids. He sounded like her dad. The same burr in his voice.
She got a grip on her emotions and did not lower the knife.
He picked up something small and metallic from the table and flicked a switch. A small dot of light came on. She recognized the scope doctors used. Like the one they’d used on Rob when he was four and stuck orange pips up his nose.
He showed it to her, moving slowly, as if she were a little kid. The circle of light bobbed around.
“I need to ask you to trust me. Just for a little while.”
She thought about her choices. Surprise! She didn’t really have any. Seemed like that was the way it was recently.
She scowled and nodded.
“I’ll trust you, too,” he said, his eyes on her weapon. “I just need to look in your mouth and ears. Check your glands for swelling, your fingernails for blackening.”
With the worst cases of the plague, bleeding started under the skin, a darkness spreading like crude oil on water, and a high fever boiled the blood. In the first few months she’d been obsessive about checking every bruise, every lump, but she was a klutz, and she always had some cuts or contusions sprinkled across her legs and arms.
He shone the light in her eyes and grunted. “Your eyes are clear.”
“Are you afraid I’ll infect you?” she asked sarcastically.
“Frankly, right now I’m more worried about your blade.” He shifted around so he could peer into her ears. She hoped they were moderately clean.
He checked her fingernails, pressing along the edges. He turned her palm over. The knife cut on it still oozed, and the edges were raw.
“Nasty,” he said. “There’s a salve here somewhere.” He placed her hand palm up on her knee and rummaged through the clutter on the table, emerging with a flat tin and a rectangular piece of material. He opened the box, revealing a paste which resembled brown Vaseline. It had a pungent smell like oregano.
“Goldenseal, echinacea, and comfrey,” he said, as though that meant anything to her. “Grammalie makes it.”
He smeared some over the wound, wrapped it tightly in a cloth bandage, and used some thin strips of cloth to bind it in place. The edges of the wound stung briefly and then stopped. She clenched her fist experimentally. The pain was numbed.
“Here.” He handed her a surgical glove. “To keep your hand dry.”
She was oddly reluctant to take it. The Sweepers wore gloves like that. She was reminded of a question she’d wanted to ask. “Do they always send dogs?”
He considered. “Lately.” He squared his shoulders and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Lately it seems like they’re looking for something in particular.”
She couldn’t control the shiver that snaked up her spine.
“How can you live like this, not knowing if they’re going to come back?”
“We try to prepare as best we can. Look out for one another.” He glanced at her with narrowed eyes. “You were living alone? Out in the Wilds?”
She nodded.
“Easier, I bet. But lonely, maybe?”
She shrugged, feeling the sudden prickle of tears. She rubbed vigorously at her nose.
“People just naturally cluster together, you know. Everyone’s got a version of the same story.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Probably for the first time ever, we have an understanding, a compassion for one another, you know? Everyone has lost someone.”
She said nothing, though a part of her wanted to. Alone, she could squash down all the emotions. He was making it hard.
“Say ahhh.”
She wondered how bad her breath smelled.
He put the scope down and reached behind him. When he turned around again, he held a thermometer. “Open again.”
She opened her mouth and he placed it beneath her tongue. The thermometer was uncomfortable in her mouth. She moved her tongue. He frowned slightly and repositioned it. “Hold still for two minutes.” She exhaled through her nose.
“Family maybe means something else these days,” he said. “It’s not about blood ties anymore.”
She grunted and shifted on the chair. She ducked her head so she didn’t have to meet his eyes.
After a seemingly endless time he said “Open” again and removed the thermometer. He shook it a couple of times and squinted at it, trying to read the numbers.
“People are scared. They fear that the disease is just dormant, that it might mutate again, resurge. We have to face the possibilities,” he continued, holding the thermometer toward the light. “Normal.” He placed the thermometer back on the table and faced her. “Good.”
Lucy ran her dry tongue across her lips. The thought that the plague could appear again was terrifying.
“I could have told you that. I’m not sick.”
“It’s hard to tell. By the time the bleeding and fever appear, it’s usually too late. And contagion usually occurs before the symptoms show themselves. We’re barely hanging on here. We can’t let you into the camp if there’s even the smallest chance that you could bring infection.”
“Aidan’s the first person I’ve seen in six months. None of this is necessary.” She stared at him, her chin thrust out. He looked amused. “I don’t know if I’m staying past tonight,” she said.
“Even so. We’ll have to dispose of the clothes you’re wearing, too. We ran out of bleach a month ago, and none of the herbal concoctions do the job.”
She remembered her mother burning their family blankets and pillows on the pyres.
“You can’t take my leather jacket. Or my boots! I’ll leave.” She pulled her jacket around her. She’d had the boots so long that, ripped and shredded as they were, they felt like old friends.
He shot them a glance, then looked at her stony face. “You can keep them. It’s the plant fibers that hold the disease. Let’s finish up.” He moved slowly, holding his hands out where she could see them.
Then he pressed his thumbs in under her jawline and behind her ears. His hands were quick and firm. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about how her father had smoothed her hair away from her face or tweaked her nose when she was little and didn’t want to take her fish oil gel tabs. “Anything hurt?”
She shook her head impatiently. He exhaled and wiped his sweating forehead. She wondered if he was more nervous than he admitted.
“Henry will ask you some questions when he gets back. He’s out on hunt detail right now.”
“Hunting animals?” Lucy asked.
He shot her an amused glance. “What else would it be?”
She shrugged. “Who’s Henry?”
“He’s our resident medical expert.” He sat back on the stool, spreading his large hands on his knees and leaning so that only one chair leg still touched the floor.