“Wait here,” Darla said.

Dr. McCarthy took one look at it and said, “Cellulitis manifesting as severe erythema.”

“Ery-what?” I asked.

“The puncture wounds are infected.”

“Can you treat it?” Darla asked.

“Yes . . .”

“But?” I asked.

Dr. McCarthy shook his head. “But nothing, just a sec,” he said and left the room. When he returned, he was carrying seven large white pills and a cup of water. “Take one now and one every day until they’re gone. Should take two a day, but I don’t have enough for that.”

There was writing on the pills, but I couldn’t make it out in the low light of the lantern. “What are they?”

“Cipro. Full-spectrum antibiotic.”

“That must have been hard to come by.” I took the glass of water and swallowed a pill, feeling the lump it made as it passed down my throat.

“There’s a guy in Galena dealing in it. I don’t know where he gets it—I suspect he has access to the government stockpile.”

“Why’d the government stockpile it?” Darla asked.

“It’s one of the best treatments for anthrax. The stockpile was a civil defense measure.”

“How much do you have left?” I asked.

“Six tablets.”

I picked up my jacket from the floor and pulled the bag of envelopes holding the kale seeds out of the inner pocket. I extracted two envelopes.

Darla glared at me.

“Use one of these to buy more Cipro,” I told Dr. McCarthy as I handed them over. “I don’t want anyone to go without because of me. I owe you one envelope for Ralph’s medical care.”

Dr. McCarthy carefully tucked the seeds into his coat, frowning. “Thank you. But I’m going to repay your generosity in about the worst way possible. I need to clean and debride those wounds.”

“Debride?” I asked.

“Cut the dead flesh away.”

“That’s not going to feel particularly pleasant, is it?”

“Nope. Probably be the worst pain you’ve ever felt. I’ve been out of anesthetics for months, and buying more just isn’t as important as antibiotics, fever-reducers, antiseptics, and the like.”

I didn’t trust my voice not to quaver, so I nodded.

“If you’re lucky, you’ll pass out. We can numb your side up a bit with snow.”

“I’ll get some,” Darla offered.

“Get the cleanest snow you can find,” Dr. McCarthy said. “Fill one of the small buckets from the supply room. I’ll sterilize my scalpels.”

While I waited for them to return, my mind wandered back to the last time I’d been in a hospital, before the volcano. I’d biked to taekwondo and forgotten my keys. Nobody was home when I got back, so instead of waiting, I tried to break into my own house. I pushed the lower sash of one of our old-style storm windows inward, and the upper sash fell, snapping my arm at the wrist.

I called Mom, and she hurried home from a PTO board meeting to take me to the hospital. She prowled the waiting room like a caged animal, pacing until we were finally taken to an exam room. There she quizzed everyone who came near us about the best treatments for broken bones, the advantages of a sling versus a cast, and how to spot infection. Pretty soon, all the nurses were avoiding us.

When we finally got home, Dad glanced at my brand-new cast, said, “Looks good,” and turned back to his movie. My parents. They drove me crazy, but I still missed them desperately.

Darla returned to the exam room. I lay on my side on the hard metal table and bit down on Dr. McCarthy’s leather-wrapped stick. Darla packed snow over my wounds. She left the snow there until my side felt frozen and totally numb. But it wasn’t. Darla sat on my legs to keep me steady, but when Dr. McCarthy started carving on my side, I bucked so hard she nearly fell off.

I hoped, wished—prayed, even—that I’d pass out. No luck. I heard a muffled trumpeting sound and was puzzled for a moment before I realized it was me, screaming around the stick clamped in my teeth. Some blood started to trickle from my side onto the table. I focused on the blood, watching it spread into a small, irregular pool.

“The bleeding’s good,” Dr. McCarthy said. “Helps clean out the wound.”

“Uh,” I moaned around the stick.

“Almost done . . . there.”

Darla reached up and took hold of the stick. I couldn’t unclamp my teeth from it.

“Leave it there for now,” Dr. McCarthy said. “We’ll let the punctures bleed for a bit, then I’ll clean and bandage them. He’ll need the stick for that. I’m going to get fresh water and antiseptic.” He left the room.

“Can I let go of your legs for a minute?” Darla asked me.

I nodded weakly.

Darla pulled her sleeve over her hand and used it to wipe the tears from my face. Until then, I hadn’t even been aware I’d been crying. “You’re a tough guy, you know?”

“Uh,” I moaned.

Darla gently wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pressed herself against me. She softly kissed my eyelids, right then left. “Love you,” she whispered.

“’Uv ’ou ’oo,” I grunted back.

Dr. McCarthy came back into the room carrying a basin of water and two small bottles. “I leave for thirty seconds, and you’re making out in my operating room? Teenagers.”

Darla quit hugging me and glared at him, but he ignored her as he prepared to wash my wounds. I caught the hint of a smile peeking out of the corner of his mouth.

Washing and rebandaging the wounds didn’t hurt as badly as the cutting had, but there were still fresh tears for Darla to wipe away. It took a couple of minutes for me to relax enough to release the stick from between my teeth.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. It was late afternoon, nowhere near bedtime, but I was suddenly so tired that I could barely sit upright. I stumbled to my feet. Darla grabbed my arm, concern plain on her face.

“I’m okay. Just tired.” I didn’t want her to worry.

She helped me down the hall to the exam room we’d slept in the night before, and I stretched out on the cot. My last thought before I drifted into unconsciousness: Why couldn’t I have passed out half an hour earlier?

Chapter 10

Darla’s snoring woke me. She didn’t snore all the time, but when she did, she sounded like a hibernating grizzly.

She’d left an oil lamp burning as a nightlight. I watched her sleep for a while as she lay curled up on the exam table. Her face was gorgeous, golden in the lamplight, although the effect was ruined by the flutter her nostrils made with each rip-roaring snore.

I thought about waking her—sometimes a gentle shake would be enough to end her snoring. But we’d both had a long day yesterday. And my side hurt badly enough that I didn’t think I could get back to sleep, anyway.

I rolled out of bed. I was dressed, but my boots were propped upright beside the cot. Darla must have taken them off me. I slipped on my boots, picked up the lantern, and went to peek out the back door of the clinic. It was pitch black and bitterly cold outside—still sometime in the middle of the night.

I closed the door and went back down the hall to the room the bandit occupied. He was curled on his left side under three blankets. Most of his face was hidden, covered by long hair and a scraggly beard. The one eye I could see was open, shining in the lamplight as he stared at me.

“You ready to talk?” I asked.

He tried to say something but started coughing instead. He hacked a huge wad of greenish phlegm onto the sheet. “Need to pee something fierce,” he said finally.

I sighed. “Bathroom doesn’t work. You want to go to the pit toilet outside or use a bedpan?”

“Try to get up, I guess.”

“Okay.” I grabbed a rag from the desk and tossed it at him. “Wipe up your mess first so you don’t smear it everywhere.”

He dabbed feebly at the phlegm, then dropped the rag on the floor. I scowled at him, picked up a clean corner of the rag with two fingers and tossed it into the laundry bin. He started to push himself upright, got to about forty-five degrees, and cried out. He grabbed his right side and collapsed back into the bed. When he regained his breath, he said, “Better use the bedpan.”