Richard
The fever had woken me before the light did. It started as a prickling under the skin, a restless heat with no patience for blankets or air. When I opened my eyes, the ceiling felt too near, the room too loud with the sound of the fan.
My pulse carried a new, blunt weight. Every beat landed lower in my body, and the air held too much information. Soap on my hands. Ink from last night’s notes. A faint sweetness in the fibers of my shirt that didn’t belong there. Amelia. I folded the shirt away with more care than it deserved, sealed it in a canvas bag, and tied the cord twice.
The rut had hit earlier than expected, early enough that I couldn’t waste a morning pretending nothing was wrong. I tested my palms against my thighs. They were steady enough to sign orders, but not steady
