F IC T ION
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rolled and pitched, quite beyond his control, and he vomited what seemed like half the creek onto the shore. He inhaled deeply and the pain was like fire in his lungs but he didn’t care because he could feel the prickle of the grass on his chest as he shivered and the warmth of the sun on his back easing the cold and he was safe and alive, and these were good things to be, even if he did wish Phyllis would stop screaming. Coughing, he rolled onto his side. His chest hurt less with each breath. “Phyll…” “Oh, Sam.” She collapsed next to him, hair plastered in wet ropes against her face and neck. “I thought you were dead.” They lay like that for a few minutes under the old sycamore. Sam’s shivers grew less violent, and finally he could breathe with some regularity. “Can you sit up?” Sam propped himself up on his elbows. “I think so.” He hoisted himself up into a sitting position and winced at the sudden pain in his head. “Everything’s blurry.” “You took your glasses off, remember?” She tried to smile and failed miserably. Sam looked down and saw red on his hands. His blood. Not his blood. Hers. Some of her fingernails were gone, the nail beds torn and bleeding. “Does that hurt?” “Does what hurt?” He touched her hand, and she looked down and saw the state of her fingers. “Oh,” she said matter-of-factly. “Gross.” “Does it hurt?” “No. I hadn’t even noticed. I guess some of them came off when I was trying to move the log.” She looked back at him and gasped. “Sam…” “What?” “Your head.” Sam brought his hand to his forehead and hissed at the sting of his fingers on raw skin. “It’s just a scrape. It’s not bleeding too bad.” She giggled absurdly. “I rolled the log over your head.” “Geez, Phyll,” Sam laughed weakly. “Some rescuer you are.” She half-smiled, then put a hand over her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. “Hey. No. Stop that. I don’t need more water.” Phyllis took a shuddering breath and tried to hold her face still, but broke into sobs nonetheless. Sam patted his hands together nervously, watching her cry. Finally he reached out and touched her arm. “It’s okay. Really. It’s not your fault.” She rubbed her eyes and gathered herself as best as she could. She took his hand and squeezed it. “Sorry. You scared me is all.” Sam squeezed back. He sighed and looked at their pile of sticks. “I guess we won’t get any beavers moving in.” “It’s okay,” she said with a sniff. “I’m sorry I made you almost die.” “It’s all right.” He moved the wet hair from her face and smiled. “Just don’t make a habit of it.” She smiled grudgingly and shoved him. “Jerk.” He took her bloody hand in his, and they watched the dragonflies as the water flowed green and gold away under the trees.