Heather Thomas

I thought of how I had gagged and vomited at just the sight of the boil-covered man.

It must be so much worse for her, with the feel, the smell, the contact of that infected flesh, cysts bursting and little live things squirming inside.

My gorge was rising again just at the thought.

I ducked back in our shelter and grabbed her sleeping bag.

I could drape it over her shoulders, at least, when she was shivering afterward.

I felt a flash of guilt, thinking of times she'd sat with me while I was sick, back when I used to want that.

I grabbed my pack, too.

I wasn't sure how long we were going to be out there.

Maybe until dawn.

Maybe we would just keep going.

By the time I caught up, she was still plodding forward into the trees.

She was going a long way from our campsite on a very dark night, and her lurching walk made it look like she was going to trip over a tree root any minute.

I hurried after her, calling her name, but she didn't respond.

I grabbed her arm.

Even through the sleeve, the flesh was burning with fever.

She glanced over at me with glassy eyes, but didn't stop and didn't respond to my pleas.

When I tried to physically block her path, she shoved me aside without much effort.

She's still a little bit taller than I am and outweighs me by a lot.

I reached for her arm again, but then recoiled.

If she was infected, just from skin contact with that man, I didn't want the same thing to happen to me.