Page 178 of Famine

Bathroom.

That’s the one thought I wake to. My bladder is screaming at me to be relieved.

The sheets are pulled back, and then Famine’s scooping me up, his hand carefully cradling my head and neck.

I must’ve spoken the request unknowingly because the horseman carries me outside, past several townspeople.

He glares at the onlookers. “Leave us, or die,” he says.

Within moments, the curious townspeople are gone.

I think I’m feeling better. Still feverish, still exhausted, but at least I’m aware enough to not wet myself.

Famine carries me past the surrounding homes and into the wilds that border the neighborhood, not stopping until we’re alone.

I’ve gone to the bathroom many times while traveling with Famine. During every one of them he’s given me some modicum of privacy. But now he doesn’t fully let me go as he lifts my dress.

A few seconds pass. “You can let me go,” I say.

I made it my business to have sex with strangers, but I can’t seem to find it in me to pee in front of Famine.

“You’ve barely moved since I set you in that bed,” he says. “I’d rather not.”

I feel myself getting weepy, though I’m too dehydrated to actually cry. “I don’t want you to … see me like—”

Before I can finish, he kisses my lips once, softly, to silence me. “You’re being ridiculous, Ana. I don’t mind.”

That’s all the fight I have left in me. And so I go to the bathroom right there in front of Famine as he helps hold me up.

I’m shaking—from embarrassment, fatigue, and fever—and now I begin to sob, my dehydrated body managing to squeeze out a couple precious tears. My emotions are all twisted up.

When I’m done Famine helps clean me up and I’m caught between utter mortification and exhausted gratitude.

Why are you being like this?I want to ask him.You’re brash and mean and capricious.

But he’s not. Not when you get down to the heart of him.

The horseman carries me back into the house and resettles me on the bed. Pulling a chair up next to the mattress, he grabs a nearby pitcher and pours me a glass of water.

I watch him while he works, feeling tired and achy and just generally unwell.

“Drink,” he says, handing it to me.

“So demanding …” My voice is nothing more than a whisper. I take the water from him anyway and swallow it down. It doesn’t sit well in my stomach—to be honest, my stomach doesn’t feel likeit’ssitting well in my stomach—and I have to swallow several times to keep it down.

The longer I’m awake and aware, the more I realize that I’m not actually feeling better at all, just more alert. And even that is tenuous because all I want to do is go back to sleep and escape all the pain I’m in. It reminds me of the last time I fought off an infection, when the town around me had all gone to their graves.

I thought I was a goner then, too. I swear I came so close to Death I could touch him.

I set the water on the bedside table next to me. That’s when I notice the small sculpture of Our Lady of Aparecida resting just behind the pitcher.

I draw in a breath. I’m not sure the horseman believes in signs, but I think I might.

“Famine,” I say, and my voice sounds all wrong.

There are things I need to tell him. Now, before I lose the chance.

His back stiffens. “Don’t,” he says, his eyes flashing. “Don’t,” he repeats. “I already told you, you’re not dying.”

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