HOTSPOT

8

After changing into a clean tank top, I approach Lora. She's organizing a crate of bandages, untangling them and rolling them back up into neat parcels before tucking in rows in the box. She glances up when I arrive, face harrowed with exhaustion. She dips her head toward the pop-up tent several feet away.

"Your friend's in there."

"Again?"

"No, he just never left. He's been in there all night." She folds up a length of gauze, hands working methodically, working out of an attempt to distract herself rather than necessity. "I brought him something to eat earlier. If he's stepped out of that tent once since we brought his brother in, I haven't seen it."

"Thanks for that. His brother, is he...?"

She finally looks me in the eye, dropping a tightly wound bandage on top of her growing pile. "It doesn't look good, Teddy. He's running a fever and he won't wake up."

It feels like the aftereffect of a punch to the stomach—a dull, hollow ache. "He's still out?"

"He lost a lot of blood. I'm... amazed he survived the night. I did what I could, but..." her gaze drops and she pushes her fingertips against her closed eyes. She isn't used to this anymore—she's a good medic, but it's been years since something like this happened. I put a hand on her shoulder.

"You did what you could. I'll tell Noah."

She nods, managing a watery smile. "Thanks."

I duck into the tent, preparing myself for whatever I'm about to see.

Noah has his brother pulled halfway onto his lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders. He doesn't look up when I slip inside, letting the flap rustle shut behind me. James' skin has taken on a sickly yellow tint, cheeks and eyes sunken. When I get nearer, I start to hear his breaths—each one shallow and rattling, chest shivering with effort. He's limp in Noah's grasp, completely unresponsive. Lora's changed him into a clean white shirt, but blood has already seeped through the new bandages, blossoming crimson.

I crouch next to Noah and reach for his shoulder.

"Hey, bud."

He doesn't look at me, cheeks flushed and slashed across by long-dried tear stains. I know I shouldn't pressure him, but seeing him like this makes my heart quiver in my ribcage with concern.

"You doing okay?"

His nod is barely noticeable. I shift, pulling my legs underneath me and sitting on the blanketed floor next to him. I want to tell him that James will be okay, but the words stick in my throat, refusing to push past the lump that's grown there. I can't lie to him.

"Is he going to die?" Noah asks at last, so softly I'm not sure I hear him right at first. I open my mouth, words dying off on my lips as I struggle to answer.

"...It doesn't look good."

His chin trembles. He moves his hand, knuckles shaking and pale, and places it on James' forehead, gently using his thumb to brush away his tangled hair. I grab his hand, pulling it away from his brother's clammy skin, and take it between both of my own, squeezing until I can feel his pulse throbbing in his wrist.

"But Lora's doing everything she can. Okay? You're going to be alright."

Because I can't promise him that James is going to be.

Noah is quiet for an unbearably long time, letting James' wheezing breaths fill the tent. He makes no move to remove his hand from mine, so I hold it between us, stroking my thumb over his knuckles. I don't know when or how I got so attached to this teenager, but at this point, even though it hurts to see him like this, I know I can't leave.