Withering Hope

"It’s still uncomfortable, but nothing like yesterday."

"Do you think those leaves worked?"

"No idea, but it's possible. The seeds’ oil is used in creams, but maybe the leaves are useful too. I feel much better. And I've slept better than I have in a long time."

If his voice didn't have this strained edge to it, I'd guess his comment was coincidental. But I don't believe it is. I steal a glance at him. His fingers clasp the edges of the metal makeshift plate. His features reflect the strain of his voice. He's testing the waters, though I'm not sure what he's testing them for. Does he remember he asked me to stay with him last night and is ashamed? Or perhaps he wants to explain his nightmares. Since he doesn't offer more information, I just say, "I'm happy to hear that."

He steers the conversation in a different direction. "You were very brave yesterday, to go after the leaves," he says, taking another bite.

"I'll go back and get more today, before nightfall. I lost some on the way back, and you might need more leaves."

He frowns. "That's not a great idea. I don't feel well enough to come with you, a

nd I don't want you to venture so far again by yourself."

"But what if you need more?"

"We have enough for today and tomorrow. I might feel better then and come with you."

"Okay…"

He runs a hand through his hair. "I should show you how to handle the weapons."

"That'd be good, yeah." I shudder, remembering the growl last night. If anything had attacked me… well, I'm not sure how helpful a weapon would have been. I had enough trouble just holding the torch and the leaves.

I remember something and burst out laughing, but there's no humor in it.

"Aimee?" Tristan asks, uncertain.

"I was supposed to find out today if my boss had assigned me to one of our biggest cases. And now I'm contemplating learning how to shoot with a bow. A bit ironic.”

Tristan lifts himself up from his seat, motioning me to help him out of the plane. I put one of his arms around my shoulders, and we stagger out of the plane.

"You need a shower," I say to him, half-jokingly.

"Trust me, I’m aware. Help me get in the shower. My back still feels like it’s paralyzed."

I lead him inside the wood cubicle and wait for him on the airstairs. He takes longer than usual in the shower, but given he can barely move, it's not surprising. I help him when he comes out, holding him up as best as I can.

"Some nerves in my back," he says through gritted teeth, "if I move a certain way, they hurt. Otherwise I just can’t feel my back."

I sit him on the airstairs and bring him some water to drink. He drinks with large gulps, the hush of the water pouring down his throat filling me with anxiety.

"Better?" I ask.

"Nope. Distract me."

"Hey, I already cooked an omelette. I've run out of ideas for the day. Scratch that, for the week." I've never been good at this. Distracting and entertaining people has always been Chris's territory.

Tristan frowns, as if he's considering something. "You're a corporate lawyer, right?"

"Yes," I say, swaying from one foot to the other. "Do you want me to talk about my job? It won’t distract you. More like bore you to tears."

"No, it's just that… Maggie said you wanted to be a human rights lawyer until you started college."

Ah, the household rumor mill again. It doesn't upset me, though. I could never be upset with Maggie. She's like a second mother to me. I'm glad Chris's parents kept her as their housekeeper after we grew up.

"I changed my mind," I say, my tone clipped.