Feverish
It's routine now. Gale doesn't even have to be exposed to direct sunlight; like clockwork, around 5 a.m. the blackened fever starts, and by 9 p.m. it recedes. So, for those sixteen hours of the average summer day, he doesn't so much as leave his bed. His blood pumps along at a toasty 106 degrees Fahrenheit. He doesn't have the luxury of sleeping through it, either; he tosses and turns, all the while trying to sort out reality and very convincing delirium.
Nearby ears will be privy to a whole litany of anxious nonsense: "Why did they move me here? Does she know I'm here? . . . I need to talk to her. Why hasn't she come yet? I think I've figured it out, but . . . need to hurry. Hurry."
Perhaps more curious is his seemingly random and absolute refusal to move his hands. The joints of his fingers are perpetually locked.
"Not yet. I can't go yet." He says this again and again to his stiff palms.
Nearby ears will be privy to a whole litany of anxious nonsense: "Why did they move me here? Does she know I'm here? . . . I need to talk to her. Why hasn't she come yet? I think I've figured it out, but . . . need to hurry. Hurry."
Perhaps more curious is his seemingly random and absolute refusal to move his hands. The joints of his fingers are perpetually locked.
"Not yet. I can't go yet." He says this again and again to his stiff palms.