Page 48 of Sick(ness)

Addy lowered the gun, her chest heaving. “What happened? I heard…”

“The sick,” he said, cutting her off. “He must’ve wandered too close. Stepped into one of the traps near the north side.”

Her stomach lurched. “Is he…?”

“Dead,” Sawyer said quietly, setting his rifle down with care. “He was barely standing when I got there. Couldn’t have lasted much longer.” He rubbed a hand over his face, smearing a streak of mud along his cheek. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Addy stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. She’d seen what the virus did, heard the coughing, the vacant murmurs, but the idea of one of them this close, staggering through the woods, was different. Too close. Too real.

“Was he… trying to get in?” she asked finally, her voice barely a whisper.

Sawyer shook his head. “No. Just wandering. Lost. But it’s only a matter of time before others follow the same path.”

The fire crackled, a burst of sparks flickering between them. Addy’s hand still trembled as she set the handgun on the counter. “You think they’re spreading this far out?”

“I think nowhere’s as far as we thought,” he said. His tone was calm, but his eyes gave him away: tense, calculating, already thinking three steps ahead. “We’ll have to be more careful. No more lights near the windows. No fires after dark unless we need them.”

Addy nodded numbly, crossing her arms. “I thought the cold would keep them away.”

“It might,” he said. “But cold doesn’t stop everything. Desperation doesn’t freeze.”

He sat heavily on the chair, elbows on his knees, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. Addy could see the faint tremor in his hands as he rubbed them together near the fire.

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint whistle of wind under the door.

Addy took a slow breath, her voice soft but steady. “You did the right thing.”

Sawyer looked up at her, his eyes tired. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

* * *

Addy drifted through the rest of the evening as if some invisible hand were pressing on her chest, compressing her lungs. She kept herself busy, stacking the last of the firewood inside, double-checking the locks, pretending to read one of the battered paperbacks that had come with the cabin. But her eyes never quite rested on the page. Instead, she watched the windows, tracing Sawyer’s silhouette as he moved outside, a flashlight beam sweeping methodically across the tree line. Every so often, a twig snapped in the woods, and her pulse would jump, fingers clenching around the book like it was a life raft.

When Sawyer finally returned, face wind-burned and his eyes sharper than ever, he didn’t say anything at first. He shed his wet coat and boots, hung the rifle by the door, and busied himself with the stove. She could tell he was trying to look calm for her benefit, but the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, the way his knuckles whitened as he chopped a carrot — they gave him away. He was just as rattled. Maybe more.

After dinner, Addy made a show of cleaning up, washing each dish with thorough, almost obsessive care. Sawyer sat on the sofa, staring into the fire, rolling a coin over his fingers with practiced ease. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for her, holding the silence open like a door.

She tried to step through it. “Are you mad?” she asked quietly, stacking bowls.

He shook his head, not looking at her. “Not at you.”

Addy hovered in the doorway, drying her hands on her jeans.

“I keep going over earlier in my head. How close it was. If you hadn’t…”

Sawyer cut her off with a wave, turning in his chair.

“Addy, stop. That’s not on you. None of this is on you.”

He paused, searching for the words.

“Some nights are just… worse than others.”

He looked at her, and his eyes softened, the edges of his face blurring in the firelight.

“You’re shaking.”

She hadn’t noticed, but she was. She tried to hide her hands in her sleeves, awkwardly hugging herself.