He patted her cheek. “Kim? Kim?” No response. Her pulse was thready.
Clutched in her hand was a duplicate of the note he’d found earlier: “Gone to Moonrise. Please forgive me.”
“I forgive you, baby. Please come back.”
Greg racked his brain for solutions. Call for help? Cell phones were useless here. The phone had been ripped from the wall, phonejack stripped from the cable. He could rewire it, but the bridge was out halfway up the trail. Impassable by ambulance, which was why he’d ridden Kingman. Maybe he could balance her in front of him and...yeah, might work.
She was limp, but he eventually got her sitting on the bed. As he swung her arm over his shoulder, he realized she wasn’t breathing. He laid her on the floor and tilted her head back. No improvement, but he smelled vomit. He turned her head to the side and pushed her belly up and in. Nothing. Again. Bile with half-digested pills shot from her throat.
Her breathing was steady, shallow.
“Daddy?” Her voice, faint.
“Ya, baby. I’m here.”
Her eyes flickered halfway open. “Sick. Ice cream?”
“Sure, all the ice cream you want.”
“Sorry about your shoes.”
He got out “My shoes are fi—” before she released another spray of vomit. “That’s OK. Shoes can be replaced.”
No comments:
Post a Comment