Page 31 of Gatling
I shook my head, giving up on the package of crackers I’d barely touched. They tasted like paste anyway.
“Some of those public bathrooms were petri dishes,” I said. “I could have been exposed to any number of viruses and bacteria.”
“The alternative was squatting in the bushes on the side of the road,” Noah offered brightly.
My stomach pitched and bile burned in the back of my throat. I groaned, tipping my head back in my chair.
“You’re enjoying this way too much. I can barely keep my breakfast from coming back up, and you’recracking jokes.”
“I mean, we could change the subject. Would you like to talk about the roasted tarantulas that are served in other parts of the world—”
“Noah!”
He chuckled. I heard him moving around the room, followed by the rush of water. Then he draped a cold, damp washcloth over my eyes. I sighed with relief.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just…don’t bring up the barbecued spiders again. Please.”
“Would you prefer barbecued grasshoppers instead?”
I gagged and removed the washcloth from my eyes to glare at him. Noah grinned.
That playful attitude was a distraction. When he thought I wasn’t looking, I’d seen Noah positioning himself in restaurants with his back to the wall, facing the door. I’d seen him scanning our surroundings everywhere we went—gas stations, visitor’s centers, coffee shops, grocery stores—like a watchdog on patrol, alert for danger.
At night, he rarely slept.
Even though we were hundreds of miles away from home, Noah still didn’t think I was safe.
“Noah, we can’t live like this forever,” I said. “What about the Veteran’s Day Gala?”
He shrugged.
“That’s not until November. We have plenty of time.”
I scoffed.
“Not when you’re the founder and lead organizer.”
My brotherlivedfor the Veteran’s Day Gala, almost as much as he looked forward to Christmas every year. When he first started working as a physical therapist for veterans, Noah noticed right away how many soldiers didn’t have families of their own to come home to. They needed something to cheer them up, to welcome them into the community, to make them feel like someone cared about the sacrifices they made and the work they did to defend their country.
So, he put together the Gala. With food, dancing, a live band, and a baked goods fundraiser, the proceeds went to charity, assisting wounded veterans who needed housing and medical care.
Noah would never miss the Gala as long as there was breath in his body. And I was not going to be the reason that he skipped it this year.
“There are dozens of people who coordinate and plan the event now,” Noah protested. “No one would even notice that I was gone.”
“Noah,” I said sternly.
Aside from a brief walk in the park, I’d been laid up in bed all day, watching TV or napping. My upset stomach had ruined my appetite, but I still managed to eat some fruit and yogurt. If I was going to be this useless, we might as well go back to Brightwater where I could be sick at home.
“Three weeks isn’t long enough to shake this guy who’s stalking you,” Noah said. “Stalkers can be persistent, you know. I think we should give it another week or two.”
My stomach churned. I missed the comfort of my own living space, not these temporary, stale motel rooms. I missed my job and the kids.
I missed Ryker.
“At this rate, I should just pack up and move to another town,” I replied, wryly.
