Chapter Six

In spite of the pain, Donovan managed to doze off. Amalia woke him for lunch and gave him a plate of tortillas, beans, and squash. She also brought him a glass of water and a cup containing an herbal concoction. She helped him sit, but narrowed her eyes in suspicion when he gasped in raw pain as the bed tray grazed his thigh.

"It's worse." It was a statement, not a question. "I'll do what I can, but I have no experience with infections. I'll just be guessing."

"It'll be okay," Donovan said, as much to reassure himself as her.

"I suppose I could go to the Petersons and see if they could spare someone to find Carina. They have a granddaughter who's a sensible sort and could ride out to the reservation. Or maybe one of them could come here while I go."

"It's probably just one of those things that gets worse before it gets better."

"Well, you won't get better without food, so eat and be sure to drink everything in both those glasses." Her tone was short, almost angry. "I have to go irrigate one of the fields. It's pretty far from the house, so if there's anything you need, ask for it now."

Donovan shook his head.

"I'll be back in about an hour to dose you again with whatever I can find that makes sense. We'll do that every hour. Maybe by tonight I'll have a better idea what to do if we don't like what we see."

* * *

By dinner time Donovan was feverish and had no appetite. "Eat it anyway," Amalia insisted as he stirred his soup with a complete lack of interest. "I killed a chicken to make that for you, so you're going to eat it, even if I have to force it down your throat."

Even in his fevered state Donovan could make out a hint of real worry underneath her tough attitude, but he had lost all craving for food and it was only the vague understanding that Amalia had done a remarkable thing in killing one of their precious chickens that made him finish the bowl.

"You better keep it down," Amalia said, as she took the empty dishes away. She handed him a glass. "I added something to help you sleep this time."

"What about the bandages? Shouldn't we. . ."

"No. Carina always says it's not good to go changing them all the time." She ran a hand over Donovan's bandaged shoulder, then his leg. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the nervous working of her jaw gave her away. "You still feel warm. If this doesn't look okay in the morning. . ."

"What will we do?" Donovan handed back the glass and lay back against the pillows, feeling dizzy.

Amalia's long silence spoke volumes. "Something." She left and returned a few minutes later with a heavy blanket. "Mother used to believe that heat would help break a fever." She tucked the thick folds around him. "If it becomes unbearable, push it off, but try to put up with it."

Donovan mumbled something noncommittal. Amalia had dosed his tea well. She left the room and he soon fell into fevered dreams.

* * *

He dreamed he was in the city again, back in the big brick house, once a mansion, once a high-priced architect's office, now the squalid home of the Malthusian Exiles. They were a gang that had its start as a band of impoverished university students who were unwanted by the military draft and too poor to continue their studies or buy tickets home. The gang's character had changed over the years and by the time Donovan joined, it was just a ragged collection of moonshine distillers and drug dealers. Everyone in the city knew the Malthusians dealt in illegal substances, but the Guard and what few city cops still worked a beat had bigger things to worry about and generally left them alone.

In his dream, the large rambling house was much as he remembered it: dark, dirty, with odd bits of old finery, such as a stained glass window and a mahogany dining table. Strangely, he dreamed there was a painting of flowers hanging in a common room. Somehow Donovan knew that the painting had once been considered valuable. As he wandered from room to room, stepping over the bodies of people sleeping off the effects of home-brewed liquor and smuggled heroin, he realized the entire house was decorated in such paintings— pictures of fruit, pictures of women in long dresses, and pictures of horses jumping over hedges. Suddenly his sister was at his side, gesturing in annoyance at the paintings and complaining that they didn't help anyone. Then they were standing in a room with charred and blackened walls, the ceiling gone and open to the sky. Somehow he knew that the fire had been his fault. His sister slapped him. "You burn the house down and steal nothing but pretty pictures. What good are you?" Now Donovan remembered that it was he who had stolen the paintings and hung them in the hallways. He told his sister he would steal something good, something they could eat, but she slapped him again. "It's too late. You'll only join the Guard and burn the house down again, after robbing us blind." When he looked around again, he was wearing his Guard uniform and standing on the mahogany table, surrounded by flames.

He opened his eyes, drenched in sweat, and shoved the blanket to the floor.

The next morning, Amalia came in with her medical tray to find Donovan nearly incoherent with fever. She could barely keep him still while she cut away the bandage on his swollen leg. What she saw when she removed the putrid bandage made her gasp. She hurried away and when she returned she was carrying a bottle and a piece of cotton cloth. "I'm sorry," she said, as she wet the cloth and pressed it over his nose and mouth. "Breathe. I'm sorry, but you have to breathe." Donovan gasped against the damp cloth and shuddered, then lay still.

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