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"Drinking, D? What'd I say about it? Don't overdue it. And what do you do? Overdue it!"
Daisy becomes flustered when anyone yells at her, especially Johnny; everything Johnny thought and said about her mattered. Here he was now, rinsing vomit from her feet because she couldn't keep herself steady long enough to do it herself and she was ashamed. Daisy hardly pays much mind to the man standing off to the side, his arms crossed and eyebrows knitted in pensive allure at the sight unfolding.
"Keep still, please, and try not to drip mud on the carpet. Harry, shut the door, will you?"
Daisy doesn't feel her pulse anymore. The adrenaline was gone and replaced with a weariness she's never felt. Her breathing is spaced out and shallow and it is difficult to form words. Her mind is a tabula rasa and the continual shivering is immobilizing. She feels warm hands holding her back, keeping her upright.
"She's freezing, John. How long were you in the water, Daisy?"
The voice. A voice she's heard a million times before but it was distinctive to him. Deep and careful, like running water over a wound, or aligning aged wine in an old cellar. The accent calmed her. She nearly forgets about numb limbs and the flutter of her slowing heart. Her body is warm now. So warm. But not because of him.
"Maybe twenty.. twenty minutes? The, um, clock thingy showed 8:10. I don't.. don't know what time it is now." Daisy's speech was scattered, broken into garbled bits that cause the strange man and Johnny to look to each other with concern.
"John, throw a blanket in the dryer and get some tea on. Daisy, come with me."
Daisy is sopping wet and she doesn't know who this man is but Johnny trusts him enough to guide her up the stairs and into her room alone.
"Strip."
He isn't looking at her. He stays in the hall, his back to the door's opening, and waits. Daisy looks down at her stomach, the one she can't feel when she presses her pruned fingers below her belly button. She looks over to her zipped suitcase on the floor in the corner, figuring what to wear before she even has the chance to open it and look inside. Something warm; demure. Pajama pants, a sweatshirt, socks. Two pairs of socks. She hasn't felt her toes in so long she expects they're gone.
"The faster you get out of those sopping clothes, the less likely you'll go into shock. I won't turn around until you say."
She fumbles with the zipper and rummages inside, feeling for the thickest material. Everything felt so warm compared to the ice clinging to her chest. She had to look when she untied her top and slipped out of her bottoms because she couldn't feel where the fabric ran. Daisy looks behind her to make sure the man is still turned around and he is, the only thing facing her is a trail of waterlogged footsteps leading from the door and a mirror nailed lopsidedly above her unused dresser.
