The Oracle (Fargo Adventures 11)

“Is he dying?” one of the girls asked.

“I doubt it,” Sam said, opening up one of the windows.

Remi scooted the kids out the door, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and returned to his side. “Maybe you should check on him.”

“Me?” Sam said, eyeing the mess on the floor near Hank’s feet. Apparently, he hadn’t quite made it to the trash can when he became ill. “What about that whole he’s the friend of your friend thing?”

“That was when he was in trouble. This is different.”

“How?”

“He’s sick. What if he’s contagious?”

“So it’s okay if I get sick?” he said as Pete walked in, saw what was going on, then did an immediate about-face.

She smiled sweetly. “If that happens, I’ll promise to take good care of you.”

Sam took the towels and walked over to Hank, noticing his pale, clammy skin. “You okay?”

“I feel like—” He pivoted toward the garbage can, racked with the dry heaves. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Sam tore off several sheets, giving them to the man.

Fingers shaking, Hank wiped his mouth and dropped the spent sheets into the garbage. “Hoping it’s just something I ate from the market this morning and not something contagious. Maybe I caught whatever bug LaBelle had when she got sick at the hotel.”

He handed the entire roll of paper towels to Hank. “Do me a favor and clean that up the best you can. If you are contagious, we wouldn’t want anyone else to get sick.”

Hank tore off several sheets, again wiping his mouth. “Is it my imagination? I get the feeling that you don’t like me.”

“I’m reserving judgment.”

Hank glanced past him to where Amal and Remi waited near the doorway, and, just beyond, a group of curious girls peering in to see what was happening. “I don’t think I should be here,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to get the kids sick. Maybe I should drive back to Jalingo and get a hotel room. Maybe even a doctor’s appointment. I’ll probably need medical clearance to even get on a plane.”

He was right about that. Ever since the Ebola crisis, the airlines were under orders to disallow passengers with a fever. “If you are sick, you shouldn’t really be driving yourself. Let’s hope it’s food poisoning.”

Sam moved to the doorway, anxious to be in the fresh air.

Remi crossed her arms, giving him the look. “You’re making him clean it up himself?”

“It’s not like he’s dying or anything.”

Amal laughed. “I do like your husband.”

Remi gave him a quick jab with her elbow. “Good thing I do, too.” She glanced at Hank, her smile fading. “Let’s hope he’s better after a good night’s sleep.”

But the next morning, when Sam and Remi went to check on him, Hank was still sick. He looked at them from his cot, his face pale, his hand resting on the edge of a bucket that Pete or Wendy had brought to him.

Hank gave a wan smile when he saw them. “Sorry to be such a burden. Something tells me this isn’t food poisoning.”

Remi moved closer, putting her hand on his forehead. “You do feel a bit warm.”

“I think I might need to see a doctor. I’d be glad to drive myself into Jalingo. I don’t want to take anyone away from work.”

“Get some rest,” Sam said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Well?” Wendy asked. She, Pete, and Amal stood just outside the office, waiting for the prognosis.

“He looks pretty sick,” Sam said.