by Morgan Rice
I open my eyes with an effort. I’m not sure if I’m dead or alive, but if I’m alive, I didn’t know life could feel this way: every muscle in my body is on fire. I am shaking and shivering and have never been so cold my life—yet at the same time I am also burning up, a cold sweat running down the back of my neck. My hair clings to the side of my face, and every joint in my body hurts more than I can describe. It is like the worst fever I’ve ever had—times a hundred.
The epicenter of pain is my calf: it throbs, and feels like the size of a softball. The pain is so intense that I squint my eyes, clench my jaw, and pray silently that someone would just cut it off.
I look around and see I’m lying on a cement floor, on the upper story of an abandoned warehouse. The wall is lined with large factory windows, most of the glass panes shattered. Intermittent breezes of cold air rush in, along with gusts of snow, the flakes landing right in the room. Through the windows I can see the midnight sky, a full moon hanging low, amidst the clouds. It is the most beautiful moon I’ve ever seen. It fills the warehouse with ambient light.
I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I lift my chin and manage to turn it just a bit. There, kneeling by my side, is Logan. He smiles down. I can’t imagine how bad I must look, and I’m embarrassed for him to see me like this.
“You’re alive,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice.
I think back, trying hard to remember where I last was. I remember the Seaport…the pier…. I feel another wave of pain run up my leg, and a part of me wishes that Logan would just let me die. He holds up a needle, prepping it.
“They gave us medicine,” he says. “They want you to live. They don’t like the slaverunners any more than we do.”
I try to register what he’s saying, but my mind is not working clearly, and I shiver so much, my teeth are chattering.
“It’s Penicillin. I don’t know if it will work—or if it’s even the real thing. But we have to try.”
He doesn’t have to tell me. I can feel the pain spreading and know there is no alternative. We have to try.
He reaches down and holds my hand, and I squeeze his. He then leans over and lowers the needle right to my calf. A second later, I feel the sharp sting of the needle entering my flesh. I breathe sharply and squeeze his hand harder.
As Logan pushes the needle in deeper, I suddenly feel the burning liquid enter. The pain is beyond what I can take, and despite myself, I hear myself shriek, echoing in the warehouse.
As Logan takes it out, I feel another cold gust of wind and snow, cooling the sweat on my forehead. I try to breathe again. I want to look up at him, to thank him. But I can’t help it: my eyes, so heavy, close on themselves.
And a moment later, I am out again.
