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The shifter swayed on his feet. His pupils were dilated. The gray at his lips had spread to the inner rim of his nostrils.

Del crossed the room in three steps. She took his wrist and turned his arm palm-up. His skin was hot and damp. She pressed her thumb into the inside of his wrist and counted. The pulse jumped under her finger. One hundred and twenty, too fast and too shallow. Each beat had a flutter at the peak that shouldn’t be there.

“How long?” she asked.

“Two days. Fever started yesterday morning. Couldn’t shift this morning. Tried and nothing happened.”

She released his wrist. His arm dropped to his side and he winced.

“I can’t treat this.” Del’s voice was level. “It’s beyond what I carry. You need to go to the clinic on Harrow Lane. The carriage house behind the Ellery property. Do you know it?”

The shifter shook his head. Sweat dripped from his hairline onto the floor.

“North end of Harrow. White carriage house with a brass lamp in the window. The doctor’s name is Marcus. He’ll know what to do.”

“He’s human?”

“He’s a doctor.” Del took a step back. The shelves pressed against her shoulders. “Can you drive?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Don’t drive. Walk. It’s six blocks. I’ll take you.”

The shifter looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot at the corners. The gray tinge had reached the hollow of his throat.

“Why can’t you fix it?” he asked.

“Because I don’t have the right components.” Del untied her apron and hung it on the hook. “And because whatever this is, it needs someone who understands blood work. Not herbs.”

She didn’t tell him she had ground the base for the thing making him sick. She didn’t tell him she had weighed each component to Arrow’s precise specifications. She didn’t tell him that the chemical smell coming off his skin was the same one that had filled her back room for two nights after she sealed the third packet.

She took her keys from the hook by the door. “Come on. I’ll walk you there.”

They walked north on Main Street. Del kept her hand at the shifter’s elbow. His weight shifted with each step, listing toward the building fronts, then correcting. The sidewalk was cracked in places where tree roots had pushed through. He stumbled on a raised section and caught himself on a parking meter.

“Almost there,” Del said.

The shifter nodded. His breathing had the same shallow catch. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. They turned onto Harrow Lane and the carriage house came into view at the end of the street, set back from the road behind a gravel parking area. A brass lamp burned in the front window. The door was unlocked.

Marcus answered before she knocked. He pulled the door open and stood in the frame, one hand on the latch. His sandy hair was rumpled, and his hazel eyes took in the shifter in a single sweep: the flush, the braced arm, the breathing. Then his gaze moved to Del. His flannel shirt had the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a pen was clipped to the collar. He hadn’t shaved.

“What did you see?” he asked.

Del kept her hand on the shifter’s elbow. “Fever started two days ago. Rib pain on the left side. Usual fever-break remedies haven’t touched it. Coordination issues. Couldn’t shift this morning.”

Marcus stepped back. The clinic opened behind him, with its exam table, workbench, and shelves of reagents and the smell of alcohol and something copper underneath. He was already moving toward the table, reaching for the blood draw kit on the shelf.

“Any rash?” he asked over his shoulder. “Discoloration at the extremities?”

The shifter crossed the threshold. His shoulders filled the doorway. The gray tinge at his lips caught the lamplight.

“No,” she said.

Marcus nodded without looking up. He had the tourniquet in his hand. The shifter sat on the edge of the exam table and the wood creaked under his weight.

“Shirt off,” Marcus said.

The shifter unbuttoned his flannel. His chest was broad and muscled, flushed red across the sternum. Marcus placed his hands on the man’s ribs and pressed. The shifter hissed.