DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 11, SECTION 8

When I stepped into Ian's room, he was asleep.

Somehow he looked more peaceful than I'd ever seen him, even during our old life before the plague.

I didn't want to wake him. But just as I opened the curtain at his doorway, a small bird, a cliff swallow, fluttered down from the mud nests above and landed at the high stone window sill. This light flutter of wings was just enough to wake Ian. He scowled and opened his eyes.

Right away he noticed that I was there.

"Ashley," he whispered. He didn't smile, but, when he saw me, a lightness came into his eyes. "I think . . . I think I was dreaming about you."

These were more words than I'd heard him speak altogether since he'd arrived.

"Good morning," I whispered. I sat on the floor beside him.

The swallow hadn't flown. It just sat there in the window with its wings folded, facing away from us, framed by the pale dawn sky.

I uncapped a plastic water bottle. This time Ian had the strength to take the bottle in his own hand. He lifted it to his lips, slowly, and drank on his own. He wiped his lips with tender fragility and twisted the cap back on with trembling fingers. For a few moments, all he did was look at me as if he were caught in a landslide.

"Ash," he whispered. "I have to tell you some things."

"I know," I said softly. "So do I." I lay my hand on the back of his; he didn't flinch like he would have the day before.

Now, though, Ian's eyes moistened. I could tell he was making a huge effort to prepare to tell me whatever he was about to say.

"I've done something unforgiveable," he whispered.

All of Ian's effort to keep from breaking down suddenly collapsed. He sobbed. His entire body contorted as he curled forward rigidly and covered his face.

After a moment, finally, Ian forced himself to breathe evenly, and he wiped his eyes. I'd never seen Ian have trouble speaking about anything. Even when he'd talked about what he experienced as a medic in the war, he'd always maintained a calm confidence as he carefully chose his words. Now, though, it was as if speaking was like prying open a locked door with a crowbar.

When he appeared finally to have found the words, I braced myself for what I was about to hear...

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