The wheelbarrow was made of metal. The paint the color of a banana peel, chipped and flaked.
I noticed this when I woke in the morning. The wheelbarrow was inches from the stall, right where I had abandoned it after dumping Dylan out of it.
I sat up, felt for Dylan. There. Still under the hay, still breathing.
He needed to drink and maybe eat if I could get food into his mouth. I had no idea how long I’d slept or how the situation outside the barn might have changed. I decided not to beat myself up for falling asleep. What was the point? I would have to sleep while Dylan went through the memory-fevers. If it was anything like mine, it would last for weeks. I didn’t think the wheelbarrow or my muscles were in a state to carry Dylan miles away to safety. At least not today.
I scouted the buildings near the barn. I kept low to the ground and came back as soon as I found a jackpot of canned food in the cabinet of a little kitchen off one of the buildings. Sergeant Bennings' men might come around at any moment, so I made my shirt into a bag and stuffed it full of canned beans and apricots. I grabbed a kitchen knife at the last second, remembering I needed a way to open the cans.
I returned to the barn, gave Dylan some more water, but he was in no state to eat. My stomach rumbled. I would not dare start a fire, so I ate the beans cold, the rough texture welcome in my mouth even though I had always thought cold beans were gross. The sweet apricot slices went down more easily.
In the dim light of the barn, I could not be sure, but I thought I saw the beginnings of web-like lines appear on Dylan's skin. He shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have risked himself for me.
“Corrina, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” He said this softly, great pain in the words. His eyes remained closed. He moaned and thrashed about. He mumbled something and I feared what he would say. Feared it would be about Jane again.
“It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay.”
His blue eyes blazed open and stared at me but did not see me at all.
I tried an apricot slice, the juice dripping into the hay around us. This he opened his mouth for. He always did favor sweet food. He chewed it mechanically, opened his eyes again and locked them with mine. This time I think he did see me.
“It matters to me that you know—I thought you were dead. That’s the only thing that made me stop looking. I thought—”
“Shh.” I caressed his face. “I know.” But it mattered that he said it. It helped erase Jane’s name a little.
Dylan slumped back, gone in the memory-fevers again and I wished him a good one, whatever that meant to him.
I ate more of the beans and apricots, then saved the rest for when Dylan woke again.
I used the next few hours to scout further out from the barn.
My loops lengthened, always bringing me back to check on Dylan, until I had almost returned to the stage, to the gallows. I found no one alive. Bodies lay out in a sort of grotesque display of blood and mayhem. A soldier here, with his uniform bloody and flesh missing. Better not to look too closely. A civilian there, propped against a trash can, dead from an obvious bullet hole to the head, but I didn't look closely enough to figure out whether it was a Feeb or an uninfected. My gag reflex worked on overdrive so I didn’t dare venture closer.
The metallic smell of blood was faint on top of a layer of garbage, but it wasn’t bad—yet. I tried to put my thoughts together. Stan and at least one other soldier were alive and organized enough to round up more Faints, but whoever had survived wasn't organized enough to clean up the dead bodies, yet.
Suddenly I pictured Dylan missing, someone having come and taken him from his stall. The feeling felt so real, I raced back to the barn. But there he was, sleeping on his side, face still flushed, mumbling softly.
I steadied myself against the wall and decided to be done for the night. I closed the door, it’s every squeak jarring my heart. I stumbled back to Dylan’s stall, felt for his sleeping form and curled myself around him and slept.
When I awoke next, Dylan’s arm draped across me. The hay and his fever made me warm. Light filtered in. Another day had passed. More prominent webbing showed up on Dylan's skin now. My fingers traced some of the lines along his cheek.
He opened his blue eyes. Our faces were inches apart. His eyes looked clear, coherent, calm.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
His hand traced my cheek, echoing my touch.
He started talking. He started sharing his memory-fevers with me.