16
Annie
Forty-eight hours on the antibiotic, and his fever stayed only slightly elevated. Enough I assured my parents he would heal up just fine. He drank plenty of water, came close to wiping out my bone broth supply, and nibbled on sourdough biscuits I decided to make.
Lighting the wood stove had heated the cabin to unbearable, so I kept the windows and door propped wide open.
In late afternoon, I suggested Roan try to get up a bit and move around. He’d become restless atop the bed, bored, I expected, since I all but refused to talk to him, speak of what had happened.
Bottling up my emotions certainly didn’t help, but I didn’t know what to think or how to feel.
I wanted him again. I wanted to hate him. Being with Roan didn’t fit into the goals of my life—no man did.
I tossed him
