(no subject)
In the back of the humvee, Beck bit back the urge to tell the driver to hurry up yet again. Heather was bundled up in his arms; he’d gotten her to drink a little water and she’d just finished a bit of bread. He looked out the window, seeing that they were still twenty miles from Jericho. The potholes weren’t helping their time, either.
Just then, he felt Heather go limp in his lap.
“Heather? You okay? Heather?” he patted her cheeks to rouse her. “Heather?”
Just then the medic reached over, putting her hand on Heather’s neck.
“Her pulse is regular, sir. She’s zonked out.”
“Zonked out? Since when is that a medical term?”
“It’s not. But…she’s not in danger, medically, really. It’s just… you know how, after thanksgiving dinner, when you’re warm and full and surrounded by family, you get really sleepy?”
“Yes…”
“It’s sort of like that, but on steroids. She just ate and drank and this is the first time in a week that she’s felt safe. Her body has decided it’s time to catch up on some much-needed rest.”
Beck considered the medic’s words. In the end, what convinced him was Heather’s regular breathing. He shifted slightly, kissing her cheek in a spot where he could find neither cut nor bruise, then cradled her head against his shoulder.
And silently urged the Humvee on.