He was sweating again, and gasping, and he was in a hot place. He
hoped he hadn’t died yet, as that was a bad sign if he was, when
suddenly sound was all around him, as overwhelming as the heat.
Maybe not though, as the heat felt and smelled steamy rather than ashy.
They probably didn’t have water to make steam in the bad place. Unless
somebody was melting a snowball? (What did that mean?)
Voices, and people were moving around. A mix of male and female voices,
as well as children’s voices more distant. He knew the voices, and was
satisfied they were NOT dead people, so he must not be either.
That was a good thing.
Maybe?
He tried to take in a deep breath, but somehow choked on it,
and, good lord did it hurt! Breathing wasn’t supposed to hurt
living people, although sometimes it did.
If they were sick or something.
He stopped choking and managed a swallow of air that (still) left him panting.
At the sound of the breath, the voices rose, and congregated closer to him,
speaking quickly to one another and doing things to him, although he was
unsure of what they were doing.
Whatever it was they were doing, it did ease the squeeze from breathing
and his breaths were not so loud and raspy now.
The panic over breathing calmed, and he began to make more sense
(if one could call it that) of his situation. He was lying on his back, propped
up on pillows. He was covered with at least two quilts or blankets. (They weren’t
effective.Despite the hot and humid room, he was cold, cold, cold.) He wished he could put his arms and hands under the covers and pull them up around his neck, if not over his head.
He thought the thoughts, but nothing changed. His arms and hands were still
lying beside him on the outside of the covers. How very strange that they weren’t
doing anything.
He managed one deep breath. That was better.
There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Some medicine they had given him?
The taste was familiar, although he couldn’t name it. Probably something he
had given others when his plants and concoctions had been the only
medicines available.
That was a long time ago. He’d lost interest after Mark was killed, plus they’d
had a doctor by then, for all the good she’d done.
Aha! That was one of the voices. The lady doctor. She was probably the one
who kept picking up his hand by the wrist and holding it for short minutes
at a time.
“His hands are so cold,” the other female voice said. She was sitting on the
bed (?) next to him, holding his other hand, fingers entwined.
He liked that. He liked the holding, and he liked that her hands holding his
were warm. Her voice was warm, too, and worried.
She shouldn’t be worrying about things right now.
Actually, she shouldn’t be worrying about anything. Didn’t he take care of
everything for her? For her and – and what? Or who?
He struggled to hold onto the thought, but it slipped away from him,
like the vapors filling the air.
