Withering Hope

The fever must be giving him nightmares.

Or is it?

I remember how he wanted me to take him back to the cockpit. How he insisted on sleeping there since we've crashed, even though there's enough space for him to sleep here. How he closed the door to the cockpit every night. Does he go through this every night? Is this why he seeks solitude? Whatever is behind his eyelids frightens him, that's for sure. I shiver.

What can frighten this man who isn’t even scared in the rainforest?

Despite getting no more than two hours of sleep, I feel energetic in the morning. Tristan's fever subsides. Doubtful that my compresses were of any help, I check the leaves while he’s still sleeping. No idea if they worked, but his back looks far better than yesterday. I put fresh leaves on the stings and let him sleep while I leave the plane and start the daily routine with the signal fire and looking for eggs.

I wake up briefly. At first I think the pain in my back might have woken me, but that’s not it. Then I understand what did. Her absence. Before I fall back asleep, I acknowledge that last night, for the first time in years, I found peace in my sleep. I know what brought it. Or rather, who brought it.

My peace carries her smell and sounds like her voice.

It feels like her touch.

But I have to give up that peace.

With a bit of luck, she’ll think that last night’s nightmares were caused by the fever. Tonight I will return to sleep in the cockpit, though I never wished for anything as intensely as I wish now to be by her side. If I stay, she’ll realize the fever isn’t at fault for my nightmares.

Before she can give me peace, I will take hers away.

And she will hate me for it.

I boil three of the six eggs I collected and eat them quickly. I wonder if Tristan is still sleeping. I'm about to boil the others for Tristan when I have an idea. I retrieve a flat piece of metal from the wing wreckage and place it over the fire, heating it up. In the meantime I crack the eggs in the fruit shell bowl and stir them with a wooden stick. On a whim, I slice the fruit that resembles grapefruit and add it to the mix, pouring everything on the piece of metal. I end up with a burnt omelette, but an omelette nonetheless.

Tristan is still asleep. I sit on the edge of the seat, holding up the omelette right under his nose. He wakes up with a start.

"What the—” he stops when he sees the omelette. "What's this?"

"Ha, ha. It's an omelette. A burned one, I admit."

His eyes widen as he takes a bite, then smiles. "You put grapefruit in it?"

I shrug. "Since we're in the rainforest, why not add some local flavor to it?"

"Thanks. This is good. Do you want a bite?"

"I'll stick to boiled eggs. I hate omelettes."

He jerks his head back, smiling. "You prepared this just for me?"

"Thought you deserved to be spoiled a bit after what you went through last night. It is your favorite course after all." I like doing something that puts a smile on his face, seeing him happy. It fills me with relief and something else I can’t identify. Surely, if he smiles, he can’t be too sick. The panic from the night when we were bitten hits me in a whipping flash, the terrible fear that something could happen to him or that I could lose him wedging inside my mind. I shake the thought out, concentrating on his smile.

"Wow. You remembered that."

"Of course. Why did you think I was asking?"

"To make conversation," he says through a mouthful.

"Do you mean you don't remember anything I've told you?" I ask with fake horror.

Tristan lowers his gaze to the omelette.

"What's my favorite color?"

His blank expression tells me he was indeed just making conversation. I sigh, shaking my head.

"How are you feeling? Your back looked better."