Gogo’s gaze was hypnotic.
“I don’t like doctors,” Vern protested, not that the woman kneeling before her looked like any doctor Vern had ever seen. Doctors didn’t wear faded jeans, combat boots, and black leather vests over flimsy gray T-shirts. The sides of their heads weren’t shaved, and their forearms weren’t painted in tattoos.
“I’m not a doctor,” Gogo said.
“But she’s got medical training from years on the front line,” said Bridget, all proud-aunt.
Vern watched Gogo suspiciously. “You’re military?” she asked. Even sick as a dog and burning up she could not conceal the contempt in her voice.
“Ina’s talking about marches, demos, stuff like that. I do first aid.” Gogo removed the pair of fingerless gloves she was wearing.
“First aid? Psh. Don’t listen to her. Gogo’s a trained paramedic. She’s got a degree and everything. You should’ve seen what a proud ina she made me at I?yan Wakanagapi Othi,” said Bridget.
Vern squinted, not understanding.
“Sacred Stone Camp,” Gogo offered mercifully, but those words were no more clear to Vern.
“The pipeline protests,” said Bridget, and with a pang Vern resigned herself to not knowing, to accepting she’d missed out on most of the world. “I’m not exaggerating when I say she saved lives, that people who are alive today wouldn’t be if she wasn’t there. And she was only a teen then. Think about what she can do now. She’s even thinking about medical school.”
“I’m not. Please ignore my ina,” said Gogo, her eyes never once leaving Vern’s. If Vern weren’t already made breathless by the sickness inside of her, the ardor of Gogo’s stare would’ve done it. “How long have you been sick?” she asked Vern.
“As bad as this? Not long. It’s been coming on strong the last day or so. But there’s been something wrong with me for a very long time,” Vern said. She had to stop talking to make space for herself to gasp for air.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” said Gogo.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Gogo said, and lugged a red bag from the floor onto the coffee table. After stretching on some latex gloves, she removed a thermometer from the bag and pushed the tip of it into Vern’s mouth.
“Well?” asked Bridget, but Gogo had eyes only for Vern.
“Going to take your temperature one more time,” said Gogo, and tapped the thermometer against her hand several times with a scrunched brow before sliding it between Vern’s lips.
Gogo held up the reading for her aunt to see. “How is that even possible?” Bridget asked.
“It’s not,” said Gogo.
“What’s it say?” Vern asked. “What’s my temperature?”
Gogo licked her lips. “My training says I should hoist you into my pickup and drive you to the county hospital.” Her manner was stern and unyielding.
“No,” said Vern, wanting to say more, to object more profusely, but unable to in her state of fevered fatigue.
“I know,” Gogo said with the exhausted sigh of a person who’d been in this situation many times before.
Bridget, hovering nervously behind her niece, tapped her foot. “So then what? What the fuck are we going to do?” she asked.
Gogo sat silently as she thought, and Vern knew that whatever she was planning, she didn’t believe it had any real chance of working. Vern squeezed her eyelids shut. Death came for all. At least she’d made it this far. At least she’d gotten the children to Bridget.
“Vern, Vern, stay with me,” barked Gogo, slapping Vern’s cheeks with an insistent hand. Vern’s eyes flickered open. She must’ve drifted off.
“Ina, start the shower running. Cold water,” Gogo barked. Bridget nodded curtly and was gone.
“Am I going to die?” asked Vern weakly, embarrassed to admit the possibility frightened her. Vern was the girl who hated all. What folly of human nature possessed her to cling to that which she so despised?
“Vern, Vern.” Another slap to the cheek. “You’ve got to stay with me. You’re having a heatstroke, do you understand? We’ve got to get you cooled down.”
Gogo hoisted Vern to a standing position and dragged her to the bathroom. She peeled Vern down to her underwear and lifted her into the tub, the water from the shower spout like a shock of ice pellets. God of Cain, help me, Vern thought but did not say, managing only a groan. Pain nested in her throat, and she could not speak through it.