Page 148 of Silent Shadows

Here we are.

For one hopeful second, I think maybe everyone is asleep.

I crack one eye open, very aware that the nerdy hunk next to me is no longer there.

Gray morning light filters weakly through the RV window. Rain taps softly against the roof. The Mystery Machine smells faintly like coffee grounds, soggy clothes, and the sort of exhausted silence that only exists after a truly terrible field day.

Then I hear it.

A cough.

Deep.

Rough.

Followed by muttered swearing.

My stomach drops.

I shove back the blanket and stumble into the narrow aisle.

Miles is standing near the tiny kitchenette, wearing athletic shorts, glasses crooked, hair sticking up in six directions, staring into a mug as if it owes him an apology.

He looks as sick as I feel.

Pale. Sleep-rumpled. Mildly haunted.

His nose is pink.

There is a blanket around his shoulders, Superman-style.

I stop.

How does he still look hot, even when sick?

“You look terrible.” I lie to myself and him.

He blinks slowly. “You too.”

His voice sounds wrecked, all gravel and phlegm.

I feel myself soften.

Which is irritating, because I came out here fully intending to mock him. I’m running out of opportunities to be funny on this assignment, goddammit.

“What happened to your face?” I ask.

“What happened to your face?”

“You first.”

“I think,” he says, pausing to cough into his elbow, “the mud won.”

I stare at him. “You’re sick.”

“I’m… not well.”

“You have a blanket cape.” I smirk.