Withering Hope

His unfocused gaze and the creases of confusion on his forehead tell me he isn't thinking clearly. As I watch him I remember a particularly worrisome piece of information Chris once shared: some animals hide to be alone when they are about to die.

"Tristan, please stop arguing with me." My voice shakes. "Let me take you back to the plane."

"No, you don't understand. The mosquitoes… I may have malaria, or yellow fever. I could give what I have to you too," he mumbles. His knees buckle and I put his arm over my shoulders, grabbing him by the waist to support him. He tries to fight me off, but he's too weak.

"You're not being reasonable. Those are diseases that are transmitted by mosquito bites only." When I put my hand on his forehead I can see why he isn't being reasonable. His skin burns with a fever so high I'm certain his mind must be foggy. Fever is a symptom of a truckload of tropical diseases. Which one does he have and what is the mortality rate?

"Let's wa

lk back; come on." He's so weak he can't fight, and starts putting one foot in front of the other. There are maybe a hundred feet until the plane, but we're going so slow, it'll take us half an hour to get there. I keep my ears tuned for danger, clutching my bow for dear life. I feel vulnerable now, even though I'm better with the bow than I've ever been. If something attacks us now, I can't react fast enough. There's no way I can protect Tristan, who seems to be on the verge of collapse. Those words play in my mind again and again. Mortality rate. I shake my head, tightening my grasp on the bow. I need to get him to safety first, and then I'll worry about the mortality rate.

I'm drenched in sweat by the time I lay Tristan on his seat in the plane. Tristan’s fever has soaked through his shirt so I help him change into a new one. I light a torch with some shreds of my wedding dress and go outside for a basket of water. I intend to use it for compresses to bring down his fever, but since the water isn't cold… What is effective against tropical diseases? I don't even know which one he's got, so I focus on what I do know. He has a fever. He needs to keep hydrated. I breathe in, refusing to cry.

When I'm back inside, I secure the torch and soak one of my shirts in water, then charge toward Tristan.

I freeze in my steps when I see him. He's curled in a fetal position, shaking, his teeth chattering, his eyes unfocused. I drop the shirt, rushing to him, kneeling by his side. He's mumbling something I can't make out, so I put my ear as close to his lips as possible. I realize I can't understand what he's saying because my heart is thumping in my ears. Pull yourself together Aimee; you can't help him if you lose it. Come on.

But when he interlaces his burning fingers with mine, I do lose it, and the tears I've been holding back start rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away. I don't want him to see me crying.

"Cold," he says through his chattering teeth. His eyes are unfocused.

"You're cold, of course." I slap my forehead. "That's why you’re shaking. I'll bring you blankets." I try to untangle his fingers from mine, but he doesn't let go. "Tristan, I'll get some blankets. I'll be back in a second." My voice undependable, I continue, "You have to let go of my fingers, my love. Please."

At the word love, he focuses his eyes on me for a second before sliding away again. He lets go of my hand. I bring two blankets and throw them over him. He's shaking just as much as before.

"Cold," he mutters. "So cold."

"There are no more blankets, Tristan." My voice crackles and I realize he's not hearing me, or acknowledging me. I bring the basket of water next to him, making him drink and putting compresses on his forehead. They don't help at all. His skin gets hotter by the minute while his trembling worsens, repeating the word cold every few minutes. I cradle his head with my arms, perching myself on top of him under the blankets, hoping some of my body heat will seep into his.

To my astonishment, his eyes fly wide open. "You shouldn't be this close to me. You'll get sick…"

"Shh… I won't. Trust me on this, please."

"You can make it fine on your own. You can feed yourself and make fires." It takes all his strength to speak. "You're strong and brave. You can make it through the forest on your own."

"Don't talk like this, please. You'll be all right, you'll see."

"Aimee," his voice holds such urgency, horror trickles in my veins. "I might not wake up tomorrow.”

"I don't… No, you'll—”

"You have to accept that."

I lean in to kiss him, tears pouring down my cheeks. He refuses to open his lips, still afraid of making me sick. "If you don't wake up tomorrow morning, I don't want to wake up either," I whisper. He wraps his arms around me. I never want him to let go. He gives in to my kiss at last, and I coax his fever-cracked lips open with mine, caressing his tongue tenderly.

"You don't need me to survive," he says.

"You're right. I don't need you to survive. I need you to live." I bury my head in the crook of his neck, grateful to be feeling his pulse against my cheek.

"You don't need anyone. You're like a star, Aimee. Stars shine from within. They don't need anything else."

This talk of stars means that his delirium is bad. I fist his shirt with trembling hands, as if this will help me keep him from sliding into a world where I can't reach him.

"I'm not a star," I whisper. "I'm a satellite rotating around you. You're the star. I need your light to shine."

"I could say the same."

"Let's agree that we are each other's star, then," I say.