Page 83 of The Way We Collide

We’re both dosed, and she holds out a hand. “Stay right there.”

I couldn’t move if I wanted to. Holding Haddy takes all the strength I possess, and I watch as she quickly strips the bed all the way to the mattress.

My eyes are heavy, but she moves fast. In no time, she has the bed remade with all our soiled linens in a pile on the floor. Haddy is asleep in my arms when I look down, and the hammer in my head has at least stopped pounding.

“Can you stand?” Sally’s hand is on my back, and her voice is so soothing.

I hold her arm, and she helps me, wrapping her other arm around Haddy. We walk to the freshly made bed, and she guides me to a sitting position.

“Her crib is clean if you’d like me to put her in it?” Shaking my head, I look over my freshly made, king-sized bed.

“I’ll just keep her here with me if that’s okay?”

“It’s perfectly fine. I’ll be here.” She helps me get settled under the covers with Haddy on my chest sucking her pacifier and clutching the washcloth I gave her. “I’ll bring a bottle of pedialyte for her—and for you?”

Nodding, my eyes are heavy, and I’m sure I won’t be awakemuch longer. She picks up a plastic trash bag of what I assume are all our dirty clothes and linens, then she goes to the door.

Hendrix is in the hall, peering through the crack over her head. “I’m out here if you need anything,” he calls. “Just tell Sally, and I’ll get it for you.”

My bottom lip puckers, but exhaustion is taking over. I don’t understand why he’s out in the hall, but I’m too exhausted to question it.

Closing my eyes, I succumb to sleep.

Everything that comes next seems to happen in a dream. I hear Haddy being sick, and when I try to sit up, gentle hands guide me down again. We take more Advil or Tylenol—Sally says it’s okay to alternate to keep our fever down.

Thankfully, I don’t vomit again. I do my best to sleep, and as time passes it gets easier. Haddy’s body relaxes, and she seems to sleep as well. The storm finally passes, and we drift into calm waters.

When I open my eyes again, I have no idea what day it is. Haddy is beside me holding a freshly cleaned Axel and chantingda-da-da. A large vase of bright pink flowers is on my bedside table, and golden sunshine filters through the blinds.

I slide my hand over Haddy’s little body, and she’s cool.

“How are you feeling?” Sally’s soft voice greets me as she slides the thermometer over both our heads.

“Like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer.”

“You’re dehydrated.” The device beeps, and she looks at it. “The good news is your temperature is normal. It seems to be a fast-moving bug. Try to drink some more.”

I take the cup from her hand, taking a pull of clear liquid from the straw. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know—24-hour virus. All the kids from the preschool have it or just got over it.” She holds up a near-empty bottle. “Haddy’s keeping the Pedialyte down. I’m giving her a few more hours, and if she acts hungry, I’ll see if she can eatsome cereal. You can decide when you’re hungry, but for now, hydrate.”

With an exhale, I shift in the bed, taking the cup she’s holding for me and giving it a little sip. “Who sent these?” I point to the oversized bouquet of flowers.

“Hendrix.” She leans closer, raising an eyebrow. “He’s been sitting outside your door around the clock. He hasn’t left since I got here.”

Chewing my lip, I pick up my phone and send him a quick text.

Sally said you’re outside my door.

Hendrix

How are you feeling?

Exhausted, but no more fever—and hopefully no more vomit.

Hendrix

I’m sorry I couldn’t help with that

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