Escaping the Lost Island (working title)

Chapter 22

The next day, everyone looked better except for Isaac. He awoke with the rest of us but did not move from his spot the whole day. Rita tried to coax some water into him, but he could not keep it down and she gave up after one coconut, not wanting to waste anymore of our precious supply. When I brought him some food, he just picked absently at it but did not eat.

Now that I was alert enough to be concerned, it occupied all of my time. When I wasn't steering, I was at Isaac's side constantly, offering him food and water, trying desperately to bring him back from whatever delusion he was currently in. The things he said when he did speak made no sense. His leg wound was clearly infected by now. Pus leaked from the edges of the cut and the skin around the afflicted area was tinged a sickening yellow. I tried soaking it in the salt water, but the swelling didn't go down. The infection was past the point of simple remedies; Isaac needed serious medical attention. It was torture to be near him and see him in such a disturbed state and have no idea how to help him, or if I even could. I forgot to take care of my own needs until Toby practically forced me to eat some cashews.

"Starving yourself isn't going to make him get better," Toby reminded me when I was finally chewing.

"I don't know what to do for him," I cried, spewing bits of cashew. "He won't eat or drink and if his leg keeps getting worse..." The lump in my throat wouldn't allow me to go on.

"We'll do everything we can." Toby's voice sounded gentler, but his words frightened me even more. It was something that a doctor might say to the family of a dying person.

I returned to Isaac's side. For a while longer, I was obsessively checking his wound, his pulse, feeling his forehead for a fever. They were useless little things resulted in no improvement, and I hated the helpless feeling that was threatening to overwhelm me.

Night fell and slowly, my frenzied activities slowed until I was just staring at him, trying to memorize his face. There was a line of faint freckles across his nose that I hadn't noticed before, but now stood out on his pale skin. A small curl of sandy blonde hair dipped over his forehead in an almost perfect cowlick. He was sleeping now, but I thought of how his bright blue eyes lit up every time he laughed. I had met him when he was laughing. We had been in sixth grade and he had been talking to a friend of mine when I had entered our biology class. I remember I couldn't help but smile when I'd seen him laughing. We were assigned as lab partners and he had made some terrible joke that I had laughed at anyways because he looked so happy about it. Our friendship began effortlessly and we quickly became inseparable. When he suffered from depression in eighth and ninth grade, I was there to cheer him up. When my other best friend stopped talking to me in tenth grade, he listened to my anger, my sadness, and my pain. He was one of the few people who knew about my insecurities. When he was moody and dramatic, I held my tongue and listened. We fought sometimes, but we always built our friendship to a stronger level when we made up. Despite everything that had happened in the past six years, he was always there.

Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as I stared at the sleeping face of my best friend, my number one confidant. This was not him, this vacant, injured being. My mouth quivered and I shut my eyes tightly, letting a teardrop dribble onto my cheek.

"Please, God," I murmured aloud. "Don't let him die. Please." The word "die" tasted bitter as it left my tongue. I repeated these words over and over, rocking back and forth on my heels. At last, exhaustion won me over and I fell asleep curled next to Isaac's motionless form.