“Yes?”
“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I’m sorry.” His head moved on the pillow. “An apology is…inadequate, can’t atone…for the devastating loss, but I am truly, truly sorry…for what my people did to your people and for the part I played.”
“You’re right—it can’t.” Anger and grief mingled and roiled. Step on someone’s foot, steal from them, even cheat on a spouse—those acts could be forgiven. Genocide was unforgiveable. Perhaps hundreds of years in the future when the death and devastation had faded into a historical footnote, there could be redemption and forgiveness. But not when the agony was fresh and raw.
However, she had forgivenGravfor being a Progg—because she believed in his innocence, that he hadn’t so much as lifted a hand to another person. Throughout history, soldiers in wartime had been known to commit atrocities, slaughtering innocent women and children. Did that make the entire military guilty? Every individual from that country? No. For that reason, she could forgive Grav.
And she recognized the unsaid message. He was saying goodbye.
“I’m not giving up,” she said. “And you shouldn’t either.”
He didn’t hear. He’d already fallen asleep.
Throughout the day, she remained at his bedside, leaving only to get water from the creek. Besides the cold packs, she bathed his face and draped wet cloths over his forehead.
When he awakened—usually from the hacking cough—she would try to get him to drink, but he would only take a few sips. She took his temperature at regular intervals, and dosed him with cold and flu medicine, but mostly she held his hand and stroked his bristly head. Even his hair seemed ill—limp, flat, more coarse than bristly.
The fever broke after several hours, dipping by a half degree, and continuing to ease downward until it plateaued at 101. She removed the ice-water bags then to make him more comfortable but continued to monitor his temp.
She tried to take heart from the fever reduction, but as it was the only sign of improvement, she feared the virus still rampaged, doing who-knew-what to his body.
It was like the old joke: The treatment was a success, but the patient died.
He hadn’t urinated all day. So ashen, he resembled a corpse. His breathing labored; she didn’t need the stethoscope to hear the congestion in his lungs.
She dosed herself with cold medicine. She felt like shit, but he needed her, and she could tell her situation was a typical cold. She’d had lesser ones, and she’d experienced much worse.
Ten days ago, she would have cheered at his suffering, prayed for his death so she could mark a point on the cosmic scoresheet for humanity. She couldn’t do that now. She owed her life to him, but, setting that aside, she’d come to understand him a little bit, to care about him. Tolikehim.
When,if, he died, she would grieve. Until the invasion, she’d been an idealist, one who focused on the good in people. She’d never been naïve—at least she didn’t think so. She’d been aware criminals and sociopaths committed horrible, depraved acts. However, she hadn’t believed, as some did, that bad acts were the result ofevil, a profound irredeemably wicked supernatural force.
Until the Progg came.
The invasion that killed billions and devastated a civilization had shattered her convictions. Onlyevilcould explain the global massacre.
Grav, in his small way, had begun to restore her core convictions. He was decent. Others of his kind must be, too. He couldn’t be the lone exception. His decency had given her hope, shining a pinpoint of light in a bleak, dark existence.
If he died, so would hope.
Chapter Sixteen
Grav awakened to find Laurel slumped over his bed, holding his hand.
I’m still alive!
He had vague recollections of her bathing his forehead, stroking his head. Whenever he’d awakened, she was there. He had solid memories of her insisting he swallow some nasty, syrupy concoction, the sweetness unable to mask the underlying bitterness. He trusted her, believed she was doing her best to help him.
His arm felt heavy as he raised it to stroke her hair. Soft strands clung to his hand.
Her head shot up. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”
“Like I was run over by a ground crawler—so, better.” He cracked a smile.
“Let me take your temperature.” She pressed a device to his forehead. “Still 101. Maybe that’s normal for you.” She bit her lip. “Maybe the worst is over.”
