Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Cecil hates when anyone who isn’t him swears.
“I was down, but now I’m back up.” He curses like a sailor when his attempt to stand sees him crashing into my arms.
If that isn’t already concerning, his lack of fight when I lift him into my arms to carry him to his truck is extremely daunting. I’ve never believed my claims he was old and frail. I just liked teasing him about his long-winded innings.
Although tired from his exhaustive fight to live, Cecil has no issues threatening my life when it dawns on him where we’re heading. “No doctors! I told you the day you take me off this land will be the day I take my final breath.”
“You need help—”
“I’ve got help. Who do you think is carrying me around like a baby?”
“I agreed to help you harvest corn, not bring you back from death!”
His spit hits my cheeks when he pffts at me. “Death? Please. I’m fine. I just need a rest. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I blubber out more to myself than Cecil. “You haven’t taken a single day off the entire time I’ve lived with you, so if you’re out until tomorrow, you need medical assistance.”
I grit my teeth when he mutters, “Don’t make me tell you twice, boy.” For a man the weight of a child, his snarl has a lot of impact. “The sick go to the hospital to die. I’m not done living just yet. I still have a lot left to give, so you either put me in bed or put me down entirely.”
Conscious his ‘a lot left to give’ comment has more to do with me than he will ever let on, I alter the direction of my stomps. I’m not fucking happy, but if I were to force him, and something terrible happened, I’d never forgive myself.
The victorious gleam darting through Cecil’s eyes as I walk up the front stairs of the cabin disappear when I mutter, “Don’t look so smug. From what you told me the last time I had a fever, you only have rectal thermometers, and since you refuse to go to the doctor, the doctor will have to come to you.”
“You’re not a trained professional!” Cecil spits out, his fast words whistling through his teeth.
With a husky chuckle, I reply, “You don’t need to be to take someone’s temperature.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
JR
When I bang my fist on the glass separating Jae and me, the wobble my blow causes the bulletproof material is so perverse, Cedric’s hand slips from her arm.
It’s two seconds too late for him, though. Not only have I seen the mark his grab left on Jae’s arm, but Isaac has as well, and just like he stood up for Ophelia the day she died, he does for Jae this time around too.
He takes down her bully with three meticulously executed strikes to his face before he lowers his fists to Cedric’s midsection. I lose count of the number of punches he inflicts before agents swarm the corridor.
They pull Isaac off Cedric, and the blood that drips from Cedric’s nose when an agent props him against the wall across from me thrusts me into my hundredth memory this week…
I wiggle my good ear with my thumb when the annoying whistle that’s doubled since the blast picks up as I exit the cabin. Cecil has always been a snorer, but his bear-like grunt seems worse since the fire.
His lungs are full of the murky black soot covering every inch of his livelihood.
There’s nothing left to salvage in the greenhouse.
Even the tomato stakes melted in the blaze.
After dragging a hand down my tired face, I pull off my socks, then gallop down the front stairs of the cabin. I can’t save any of the produce Cecil was planning to can for next winter, but the quicker I get started repairing the crops, the faster we’ll have more than deer meat to consume.
I can survive on deer meat. I’d just rather not.
It isn’t a delicacy I’d choose to eat forever.
My steps into the charred remains of a once-thriving greenhouse slow when I notice a boot imprint at the side of the water tank that’s empty since I forgot to switch off the sprinkler system once the fire was contained. I usually get around barefoot. Cecil’s stomps are less impacting to the soil than mine, so he wears boots, but the ones I’m stalking are far larger than Cecil’s boot size. The owner must wear at least a size eleven shoe, and the deepness of the tread makes it appear as if his footwear was recently purchased.
Upon noticing the prints lead away from the greenhouse, I alter the direction of my route. They trek past Cecil’s truck and down the driveway, ending at a gate hidden by overgrown shrubbery.
When I spin around in preparation to ask Cecil if he’s had any visitors the past week I didn’t know about, something in the bush captures my attention. It’s the Dodger’s bat usually hanging above the cabin’s front door. Cecil often joked it would take someone down quicker than a bullet.