Baywatch fic: Rocks and Hard Places (5/10)

[faye_dartmouth]

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN



-o-

Mitch usually had pretty good ideas.

And then, occasionally, he had terrible ones.

Taking Brody on a boating excursion to teach him how to love the ocean: that was a shitty idea.

Apparently, going to sleep when Brody was developing a bad infection from an archaic medical procedure? Also possibly a really bad idea.

This was confirmed to him when he was pulled suddenly from his slumber by a cry.

Mitch was quick on his feet, by a random cry in the middle of the night while on a deserted island was not easy to place.

Until he remembered that he wasn’t alone.

Brody cried out again, his body contorting on the sand.

Mitch swore, sliding out of his chair and going to his knees next to Brody.

He got there just in time for Brody to thrash again, crying out in pain. It was impossible to tell, waking up unexpectedly as he had, whether Brody was thrashing because of pain or thrashing and causing pain. In either case, Mitch needed to calm him down.

Now.

He gripped Brody by the shoulder, holding him down to the sand before he could move again. “Brody! Hey! Brody!”

Brody fought against him, his body straining weakly before he finally seemed to give up, going limp again on the sand while he started to cry.

Mitch swore again. He was hesitant to let go -- the last thing Brody needed was the exacerbate the wounds -- but it wasn’t an easy thing to watch another man cry.

“Brody,” Mitch said again, softer but just as firm hoping to cut through the other man’s hysteria. “Hey.”

Brody took several more stuttering breaths before his eyes opened. He stared ahead blankly for a few more seconds, unable to do anything about the tears already on his cheeks.

When he seemed calmer, Mitch relaxed his grip but didn’t let go. “You okay? Are you in pain?”

Sniffling, Brody made a small sound that was impossible to place exactly.

“Are you bleeding? What is it?” Mitch prodded, looking for the makeshift bandages. They’d been dislodged in Brody’s thrashing.

“No, I--” Brody started, but his voice cracked. “I just -- I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Mitch said, not sure what part of this was fine. “Just -- are you fine?”

Brody was shaking again now, full blown tremors that were rattling his entire body. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said again, the words slurring together rapidly.

“Hey,” Mitch said, tightening his grip again in a bid to keep Brody grounded. “You’re fine, do you hear me? You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

Those last words seemed to register, and Brody looked up for the first time. It took him a moment to recognize Mitch; another moment for him to get his bearings on the situation. “Mitch?” he asked finally, as if reality was a tenuous thing for him at the moment.

“Yeah,” Mitch said, easing up his grip again. “You okay?”

Still trembling, Brody allowed himself to breathe for a few more seconds. “I -- yeah,” he said, almost like he was trying to convince himself of it. “Yeah.”

Mitch sat back now, letting go entirely but staying close. “You want to tell me what happened? Is it your wounds?”

“No, I mean--” he started and had to stop, catching his breath again. “I messed them up when -- when I woke up--”

With a quick glance, Mitch tried to see if any damage had been done. It was hard to tell, of course; the wounds had been a mess before this incident. He looked at Brody again. “What made you wake up?”

Brody’s eyes were nothing but apologetic. “Just a -- just a dream,” he said, the halting words hiding more than Brody probably wanted to let on.

“Must have been some dream,” Mitch observed, carefully helping Brody shift back into a more comfortable position. The sand had been disturbed, the wounds didn’t look like they’d come into contact with the sand. That was probably a marginal comfort, but Mitch would take it.

The movement was hard on Brody, but he endured it, his face almost colorless under the light of the moon. “Yeah,” he agreed.

When he was back in the makeshift bed of sand, Mitch tended to building up the pillow under his head again, watching wearily as Brody kept his gaze diverted. “You want to talk about it?”

Brody’s cheeks were still wet; he was still shaking. “No.”

“It might help,” Mitch suggested. “You shouldn’t jar yourself like that.”

Looking embarrassed now, Brody just nodded.

“Come on,” Mitch said. “Let me get you a drink and you can tell me about it.”

Brody didn’t protest, and he even helped to lift his hand to guide the cup to his mouth. Mitch lingered close, pulling the cup away when Brody passed it back, letting his hand drop to the ground in exhaustion.

Mitch sat back, putting the half emptied cup back down as he peered lower to try to meet Brody’s eyes. “So?”

Brody glanced at him, a little imploringly. He didn’t want to talk about it, that much was clear. And maybe Mitch didn’t need to know. But they were stranded on a desert island; Brody had an infection from a procedure that Mitch himself had completed. Mitch could benefit from the companionship right about now.

And it wasn’t going to hurt Brody to stay coherent a little longer.

Brody, however, shook his head. His breathing still hadn’t recovered; Mitch wasn’t sure it would. “You -- you don’t want to know.”

“Humor me,” Mitch said. “Entertainment’s a little dry out here.”

“You think?” Brody asked, somehow managing to add a tinge of bite to his worn out voice.

“The dream, jackass,” Mitch said, deepening his voice just enough to sound threatening without actually having any intent of backing up the threat.

Brody exhaled heavily, almost as if to ask himself what the hell the point was. Brody had made a good show of standing up to Mitch when he joined Baywatch, but ever since he’d become a full fledged member of the team, he’d been Mitch’s best student. Maybe that was why Mitch hadn’t taken Brody’s tepid feelings about the ocean so personally: he’d come to expect Brody to be a miniature version of himself.

It seemed as if Brody was having the exact same line of thought. “Remember before -- back before--”

“Before the trip?” Mitch prompted.

Brody nodded, trying to swallow and bring more saliva into his parched mouth. “When you were -- were upset -- about me -- and the ocean.”

The words came in rushes, punctuated by staggered breaths. Mitch nodded along anyway. “Sure. When I was trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you.”

“And you thought -- you thought -- maybe I was scared,” Brody continued.

“Sure, after that mess with Leeds,” Mitch said. “You nearly drowned in that cage; it’d scare the shit out of anyone.”

This time, Brody shook his head. “I was -- I was fine,” he said, and he had to pause to wet his lips. “But -- now…”

Mitch hesitated, not wanting to let himself finish this particular thought.

Brody looked like he didn’t want to say it either. “I might be -- now,” he said, sounding even more apologetic than ever. “I may be scared now.”

Mitch’s stomach dropped. “You had a nightmare?”

“Just, you know,” Brody began, trying to sound dismissive. “Storms. Impalement. Cauterization. Deserted islands. The ocean trying to swallow me whole.”

He might have pulled the whole thing off as a joke, but the punchline was Brody’s pale skin, compromised breathing and exhausted visage. Not to mention the reddened wounds on his side.

The ocean in the background?

Sounding just like a heckling crowd.

“Damn it,” Mitch muttered.

“It’ll pass,” Brody offered. “Fever, right? I’ve always -- always said shit -- when I’m sick. Ever since I was -- since I was a kid.”

That hardly made it better. In fact, it only proved the point that Mitch had screwed this up situation up. He’d been obsessed with Brody’s feelings on the ocean, and he’d tried to push it. Brody had allowed it, and here they were.

Mitch could talk about bad luck, the power of the ocean, the unpredictability of storms, but it all came down to the fact that Mitch hadn’t been able to let shit go.

“It’s okay,” Brody added hastily. He was making every effort to focus himself now, more earnest than ever. “Mitch, it’s okay.”

How was Brody saying that? How was Brody the one offering reassurances? What the hell kind of situation was this anymore? What had Mitch done to distort the fabric of the universe quite this bad?

“No,” he said shortly, barely keeping the rage burning in his chest under control. “No, it’s not.”

The rage wasn’t directed at Brody, but sick as he was, he could still sense it. “It is,” he said, voice growing steady now, as if he was putting his own weakness aside to contend with Mitch’s.

That just pissed Mitch off even more. “Brody, shut the hell up,” he snapped, harsher than he intended. It wasn’t Brody he was pissed at, but Brody was the only one here. Brody was the one who kept getting himself caught in Mitch’s crossfire with the whole damn universe.

“Mitch,” Brody said, and the pain in his voice now wasn’t from his injuries. “I talked -- I talked shit before. About -- about you. This isn’t -- this isn’t your fault. It’s not.”

The more Brody tried to placate him, the less Mitch wanted to hear it. The part of him that craved absolution was the part that Mitch hated now. He didn’t deserve absolution, just like Brody didn’t deserve to die on some shitty island for Mitch’s determination. “Shut up,” he said again, not sure what to do about the inexplicable burning behind his own eyes.

“I knew the risks,” Brody said, trying to sound emphatic now, even if it cost him all his energy. His eyes were bright in the moonlight; sincere. “I can live with -- with them.” He swallowed, regaining his breath. “Even this.”

Mitch looked at Brody so hard it nearly hurt. The fact that Brody meant every word he was saying just made it worse. “This isn’t the job, Brody.”

“The ocean -- it is,” Brody said.

“This was our day off,” Mitch reminded him.

Brody didn’t seem to quite know what to do with that. He tilted his head, vaguely perplexed for the first time since he woke up. “It’s all the job -- has been since the start,” he said. “Baywatch’s is more -- more than a job. Right?”

And that was the killing blow. Brody quoting Mitch back at him. Clearly, Brody was trying to show that he’d learned and grown and accepted and shit. But it only showed the stark contrast between their motives on this trip. Brody hadn’t wanted to come but had for Mitch’s sake. Mitch had coerced Brody into coming with threats to the very job Brody was confessing to hold dear.

Mitch really could be a son of a bitch when he wanted to be. He’d always thought Brody deserved it, but he didn’t think that now.

He probably shouldn’t have thought it in months, not since Brody proved his shit by finishing the investigation Mitch started at great personal cost.

“Besides,” Brody added, trying to look upbeat. “Rescue’s coming. Right?”

Right.

Mitch closed his eyes, just for a moment to collect himself.

Right.

He opened them, forcing his tension out when he exhaled. “Yeah,” he said, ignoring how hollow the word felt in his chest. “Rescue’s coming.”

A smile ghosted over Brody’s face. “It’s coming,” he murmured, and his voice lost its energy now. The immediacy of the moment had faded now, and Brody had passed with. The coherency in his eyes dimmed, and he seemed to wilt back against the sand. “Maybe -- in the morning.”

“We’ll start looking with first light,” Mitch vowed.

“First light,” Brody repeated, more distantly than before. “Just -- gonna sleep…”

His eyes closed and Mitch found he couldn’t move to wake him again.

Brody’s eyes closed again, dark lashes against his ghostly skin. “Just a little.”

Just a little.

Just a lot.

Brody was already asleep at this point, which Mitch figured was just as well.

Because what the hell was Mitch supposed to say to any of that.

-o-

The rest of the night was bad.

Mitch was still exhausted, but sleep was utterly out of the question now. Instead, he preoccupied himself by tending to the things Brody hadn’t asked of him. He cleaned the bandages and dressed the wound again. Though Brody flinched under the touch of cool water, he didn’t wake up again.

Then, he spared fleeting seconds to duck into the woods to grab more wood. Even though it was dark and rescue was unlikely, the burning fire made him feel like something was being done.

He needed that.

Brody deserved that.

Brody, for his part, had periods of quiet sleep, but the restlessness returned in spurts. Whether he was dreaming or not, Mitch didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that Brody didn’t wake.

Relief, Mitch figured, was something he had to leave behind in yesterday.

Tonight, and the days going forward, would be about need.

The fever rose; the fire burned.

Mitch kept watch over the shores, wishing there was something out there he could rescue. When the waves failed him, he tipped his head back toward the sky, looking for an answer there.

There was no mystical solution, but Mitch knew enough about the stars to put a few things together. In the past, sailors never relied on advanced navigation or GPS. They used the stars for that; Mitch’s own ancestors had probably made their way through the seas under these exact same stars.

He was no expert, being so many generations removed, but he wasn’t a novice, either. At first, he scanned the constellations for something to do, but as he studied their position, he was struck by a thought he couldn’t quite shake.

The stars put him south of Baywatch by some distance.

They did not, however, put him too far west.

His guess that they were closer to shore than he’d originally thought from his land survey this afternoon? Was spot on. The stars were suggesting the same thing.

They also confirmed that he was much farther south than he’d intended. With his best calculations, he would be well outside the first and secondary search zones. No doubt, Stephanie would turn the search farther from the coast before shifting farther south. He knew rescue was still coming, but it would be longer than he’d thought.

That made the notion of swimming for it one that Mitch could not dismiss out of hand. As for himself, he could survive weeks, even months on this island. Hell, if he rigged something for fishing, he could probably survive years, living out his natural days in relative peace and harmony. The island was self sufficient.

Mitch had felt Brody’s fever when he changed the bandages. It was climbing dramatically. Brody might not even make it days at this point. Shit, Mitch was worried enough about tonight.

But if Mitch swam for it; if he left to get help.

Help could come much faster.

Instead of days, Mitch could be looking at hours. It would take him a good half day to make the swim, probably more if he didn’t come across a vessel. But after that, getting a targeted rescue would be easy.

It could save Brody’s life.

Or it could condemn Brody to die alone.

What was it with this trip and rocks and hard places? Was this karma? Was this the universe reminding Mitch to mind his own business next time?

Shit, Mitch would be happy to learn that lesson when he got off this island.

He’d learn any damn lesson the universe wanted if Brody got off this island, too.

-o-

Morning came under Mitch’s watchful eye, for all the good it did. He threw some more logs on the fire and inspected the damaged caused by the tide. He had to fix a few parts of his HELP sign, before he took stock of the remaining food cache. Taking a few extra seconds, he refilled the water, and he contemplated walking down the beach to see if he could snag a few more oranges, but the thought turned his stomach. For Brody, he would, but God help him, he wasn’t hungry himself right now at all.

Still, he forced himself to eat.

This couldn’t be about him right now. Not when he was solely responsible for keeping Brody alive long enough to get the hell off this hunk of rock.

He ate quickly, but regretted it almost as quickly. Once he’d fed himself and tidied up, he realized he had no choice but to face the reality of the day.

First, that there was no boat on the horizon. There was no plane in the sky.

Second, that Brody was going to need a hell of a lot of help to do anything today.

Mitch had no control over the former. So he had to tackle the latter.

Mustering what he could of his conviction, Mitch settled himself down in the sand next to Brody with a peeled orange for breakfast waiting expectantly nearby. He had somewhat hoped that Brody would hear him, rustling around in the sand like he was, but the younger man appeared to be still lost in sleep.

The morning light made plain just how much worse Brody’s condition had gotten. The flush in his cheeks had deepened, and the dark circles were growing more noticeable around his eyes. His parted lips were dry; his forehead, however, glistened with sweat. The translucent sheen of his eyelids did nothing to offset the grayish hue that was taking hold in his lips.

All of this was emphasized by the tremors that still rattled up and down Brody’s body. He’d been quiet for several hours, which Mitch had taken for a good thing in the depths of the dark. Now, in the new sunlight, it only served to show Mitch how much closer Brody was to not making it off this island at all.

All the more reason he had to prevail, then.

Inhaling, Mitch pressed his lips together, placing his hand on Brody’s shoulder in what was becoming a rapidly familiar gesture. The skin beneath his touch was hot, but Mitch ignored it, squeezing slightly instead.

“Brody,” he said, lowering his head to get closer. He wanted to be heard, but this time he didn’t want to yell for fear of startling the other man. “Brody, time to wake up.”

Brody stirred slightly, but the grip of sleep -- or unconsciousness, Mitch couldn’t completely distinguish anymore -- was strong.

Carefully, Mitch gave Brody a small shake, just enough to push him back toward awareness.

It had limited effect. Brody stirred again, more pronounced this time, and he seemed to struggle for a moment, trapped somewhere between wakefulness and oblivion.

Not willing to let him slip away again, Mitch jostled him one more time, calling out insistently, “Brody, come on, buddy. Open your eyes for me.”

It didn’t seem like a coincidence that that was the motivation Brody needed. This time, when his body stuttered in its repose, his eyes cracked all the way open -- and stayed that way.

Even open, however, Brody was not quite coherent. His eyes were glassy -- from fever, from exhaustion, from confusion -- it didn’t matter exactly what. It was hard to sit there, watching as Brody visibly struggled through the uncertainty before his blue eyes finally managed to focus on a fixed point on Mitch’s shirt.

When he finally jerked his bleary gaze upward toward Mitch’s face, Mitch was sure to greet him with a smile.

Brody stared at him, as if he had no idea what to make of that. After several long moments of contemplative silence, Brody screwed his face up and asked, “Mitch?”

It wasn’t much -- not as much as Mitch had hoped -- but at least it was something. “It’s time for you to try eating and drinking a little bit,” he said. “Think you’re up for it?”

The words didn’t appear to make much sense to Brody; he looked even more vexed when Mitch produced an orange that Brody stared at like he’d never seen one before.

Given this, Mitch knew there was no point in offering it for Brody to hold. Instead, he tried not to make it seem super weird when tore off a chunk and held it up to Brody’s mouth. “Here we go,” he said, coaxing Brody’s mouth open. Brody, belatedly, seemed to obey, opening his mouth when the orange was already part way in. “Give it a chew now.”

Mitch had never been one to be embarrassed or hesitant to do whatever necessary. He was a lifeguard, after all. He’d helped people out of all sorts of awkward and uncomfortable situations. He’d given people CPR under all conditions, but it was more than that. Ronnie liked to think that the incident with his balls was unusual, but it wasn’t. Mitch had done plenty of similar services for people all up and down his beach. It was part of his job description.

Really, it was just who he was.

If Brody couldn’t feed himself right now, then so be it. Mitch would do what was necessary.

And try like hell not to think about the fact that this was Brody.

Who was slowly dying on a beach right in front of him.

While Mitch force fed him oranges.

Instead, he smiled again. “There we go,” he encouraged, watching as Brody managed to swallow the first chunk. “Ready for another?”

This process continued on for some time, until Mitch had managed to feed Brody the entire orange. Brody was quiet throughout the process, following orders without much indication that he fully understood what he was being asked to do. When Mitch turned to the water, Brody spilled more of it than he drank, and his only commentary was a litany of apologies.

“Chill, dude,” Mitch said, reaching for the second cup to try to get more in Brody’s system since the first cup was mostly in the sand. “You’re good.”

Brody shook his head, clearly becoming distressed now. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just -- I’m sorry.”

“Easy,” Mitch said, helping him take another drink. This one went down better, but Brody was still spluttering.

“I just -- I can’t,” Brody said, with no clear indication of what he meant. His eyes were wet and he shook his head again. “I’m sorry.”

With the heat rolling off him, Mitch knew that Brody wasn’t exactly in his right mind. He recognized Mitch, but it wasn’t certain if he knew where they were or what they were doing. The fact that his only instinct was to apologize probably was significant.

It did nothing to make Mitch feel better about the situation. “Come on, man,” Mitch cajoled as lightly as he could. “None of this is your fault. This was all an accident, okay?”

Brody’s eyes locked on his, and his expression was imploring. “But -- I screw things up -- Mitch,” he said, each word pulled apart by his stilted breathing. “That’s me. What I do. I’m a -- a screw-up.”

He was getting agitated, trying to lift himself up off the ground. To do what, it wasn’t clear. And he certainly wouldn’t be successful in the attempt.

Mitch put a gentle but restraining hand back on his shoulder. “You’re not,” he said, as steadily as possible, hoping that Brody could make sense of that much. “You didn’t screw up this time, buddy. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The assurance only seemed to break Brody’s spirit even more. “I’m sorry,” he said, bordering on tears again. “I just -- I’m sorry.”

Denials weren’t sinking in. Reason was lost on him.

Mitch sighed, and leaned closer. “I know, buddy,” he said, affirming Brody instead. “I know.”

Brody seemed to take some comfort in that, like he felt relieved to finally be right -- even if it was about being all wrong. With that, he seemed to relax, settling more easily back against the sand. There was some comfort for Mitch, as well. At least Brody probably wouldn’t remember this conversation.

Even if Mitch himself would never forget it.

-o-

Mitch had every intention of letting Brody rest today -- it would be silly to think he could keep him awake at this point -- but that didn’t mean that certain things didn’t need to be done. Mitch was pragmatic at heart, and he would make sure that Brody had a fighting chance today.

That started with breakfast.

The next step was to tend to the wound.

It felt somewhat pointless, given the fact that infection had set in. But if Mitch gave up on it, he was essentially giving up on Brody. That was simply not acceptable.

Unfortunately, that didn’t make it easy. Sure, Mitch could render basic first aid, but he was a first responder more than anything. He could perform CPR and provide pressure and keep someone alive until real medical help alive. Sustaining someone over a period of day wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse. Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from performing a cauterization procedure, so he probably didn’t have any room to bitch about it.

He did hate it, though. Because it made him feel useless; not to mention the fact that inflicting more pain on Brody at this point just seemed cruel.

Worse, Brody wasn’t of sound mind this morning. When Mitch started to use the refreshed bandages on the wound, he started to flail. When Mitch used one hand to hold him down, the younger man fought back. He hadn’t realized how much Brody’s acquiescence over the last few days had been intentional; nor had he fully grasped that it had probably been for Mitch’s benefit more than anything else.

Because today, Brody writhed in agony when the wound was treated. He cried out and muttered, vague pleas for reprieve, and even when Mitch spoke gentle words of encouragement, Brody didn’t seem to hear him or even know where he was or who he was with.

Much of this could be traced to the condition of the wound itself. Mitch cleaned it studiously, but the red area around the wound had grown substantially. The skin looked gnarled, and parts were going black. The blisters were starting to burst, seeping pus and traces of blood. The front wound was worse than the back, but both were showing signs of advanced infection.

All Mitch could do was add cool water and whisper words of solidarity to Brody as he whimpered in the morning light.

When he finished with the wound, they were both spent this time. Mitch thought about the other tasks Brody would need, but decided none of the others mattered much anymore. If Brody shit himself, Mitch would deal with that. At this point, he doubted Brody would know. Usually Mitch would allow for dignity over relief, but not today.

Not when Brody was semi-conscious and in such desperate need of relief.

If Brody wanted to make a difference choice, Mitch would be glad to indulge him.

But Brody wasn’t making choices this morning.

The only choice that mattered was each inhalation he took, one after another after another as the morning started to stretch on.

-o-

After breakfast and cleaning the wound, Mitch allowed them both due time to recover. He manned his post on the beach, keeping keen eye on Brody and the water around them, staying true to it until Brody finally lapsed back into stillness, his murmurs and moans tapering off.

Even then, he stayed there a little longer, holding out hope for an early morning rescue. No doubt, Stephanie would have had shifts organized, getting the first group in the field right when the sun was up. They would be able to reach here in that amount of time, if the search area had been widened appropriately.

As the morning sun lifted in the sky, Mitch had to acknowledge that such things were possible, but not likely. Today would require him to maintain his position with three simple tasks: keep the fire going, watch the horizon and keep Brody alive.

He had done all he could on the last task. The second task was proving frustrating. Therefore, he decided to focus for a while on the first.

It did give him pause when he got up; he hated to leave the post. While the puffs of smoke would be a clear enough signal with or without him, Brody was totally vulnerable today. There were no natural threats on the island, as best Mitch could tell, but Brody seemed to be working for each breath today. Leaving him seemed wrong.

But necessary.

Mitch’s wood stockpile needed to be replenished. He needed to gather more food.

Leaving Brody for short periods of time was going to be necessary in order to secure their rescue.

Brody would agree with that, Mitch had no doubt.

Even so, he knew it was still his choice to leave.

And that choice was getting harder every time he made it.

-o-

Mitch started with collecting oranges. He made the walk faster than he had the day before, jogging around the bend to find the grove just on the other side. He deposited the fresh oranges in the food cache before taking his pocket knife and trolling through the woods. The best lumber had already been collected in their vicinity; Mitch had already burned most of the dry wood that had fallen off the trees. Cutting down new wood was not the easiest task in the world. For one thing, fresh wood didn’t burn as well. For another, all he had was a pocket knife and brute strength. It was exactly an efficient process.

That did not deter Mitch. He ventured slightly deeper into the woods, perhaps farther than he intended, but he came back with several armfuls of fresh wood, which he tossed on the stack not far from the fire.

One more armful, he calculated, would get him through most of today and probably into the evening. And who the hell knew? Rescue could come by then.

Mitch trudged off into the woods with that hopeful thought.

And he came back to a less hopeful reality.

He could hear it, the second he passed the treeline. He’d grown accustomed to the sounds of the island over the last few days, and he’d honed his ears for any note of dissonance. Of course, he had been hoping that meant rescue.

This sound wasn’t rescue.

There was thrashing; the sound of sand being shifted frantically. And keening. Guttural and agonizing and--

“Brody!”

Mitch dropped his carefully collected wood, bounding over it with long, powerful strides.

On the sand, Brody was flailing, his whole body scrabbling at the sand as if he were in some type of desperate flight. In his weakened condition, he wasn’t getting very far, but he had managed to make it to his hands and knees, dislodging his bandages and trying to get to his feet in flailing movements.

“Brody!” Mitch called again, falling to his knees next to the other man and reaching out to hem him in. He grasped Brody by the shoulders, trying to keep him still. “Dude, snap out of it!”

Brody fought him, if only briefly. He bucked, making one last effort to pull away and get his feet beneath him. His body was unable to support him, however, and he collapsed back toward the sand, where Mitch readily caught him.

In his arms, Mitch could feel the heat off Brody’s skin, and his face was lined with pain, streaked with tears and he looked up without seeing, beyond Mitch’s face to the blue sky above.

“Brody,” Mitch said again, trying to catch the younger man’s attention. “Brody, eyes on me.”

Brody was breathing hard now, the movement in his lungs labored. His body was shaking so hard that his teeth were actually chattering, and he was in obvious pain. Mitch could see that several more blisters had cracked and were seeping pus, and it was all Mitch could do to wrap his arms around Brody chest, keeping him close and still while his breathing started to slow and his eyes finally started to clear.

It still felt like a lifetime, however. When Brody’s eyes finally did focus on him, he still looked confused. “Mitch?”

At least he knew who Mitch was. That was something. “Yeah,” Mitch said. “I’m here.”

Brody nodded, though it seemed to be nothing more than an instinct. His brow was deeply forward, chest still heaving as he tried to orient himself to some marginal degree. “It’s...hot?”

“More like you’re hot,” Mitch quipped.

The joke was lost on Brody, who looked as though Mitch had just tried out a pickup line on him.

“I mean, you’ve got a fever,” he said. “Remember?”

From the look on Brody’s face, he didn’t remember. Still, he nodded. “You’re here?”

If nothing else made sense, Mitch knew that much was sticking. He held fast, keeping Brody close as he smiled. “Yeah, buddy,” he said. “I’m here.”

Brody nodded, even more vague than before as his eyes slipped from Mitch’s face, looking vacantly out at the ocean.

Mitch sighed, sitting back on his heels a little. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For Brody, that was all there was. Though his breathing was still strained, the tension eased in his shoulders as he closed his eyes again.

Brody drifted back to sleep, Mitch still holding him.

Shit, he thought as the ocean continued its rush against the shore. That was really all there was.

-o-

For several minutes, Mitch didn’t dare move. He was not eager to move Brody again for fear of setting off whatever fears were chasing him through his fevered brain. Also, for as much as Brody needed time to recover, Mitch knew he needed it, too. Brody wasn’t the only one starting to labor under the conditions of the island.

When he finally did rally enough of his resolve, Mitch eased Brody back to the sand bed he’d made, tidying it slightly before laying Brody back down. He was careful to support his head, cushioning it as best he could against the sand. He had some practice with this process now; he was getting better at it.

He was also getting better at maintaining the wound. Better, of course, wasn’t exactly the right term. Mitch was becoming more efficient, perhaps. He was becoming less physically averse to the sight of Brody’s mangled flesh. But that didn’t mean he was yielding better results. In fact, every time he checked the wounds, they seemed to be getting worse.

Even in the short time since breakfast, the marred flesh was redder and hot to the touch. Mitch cleaned off the sand, sanitizing the knife before cutting away the worst of the broken blisters in order to make sure that no sand or gunk was getting caught inside. Brody shuddered occasionally, but he did not wake. With Brody’s thrashing, there was more to clean out this time, but when Mitch finished, he was both discouraged and heartened to find that it was still early in the morning.

It was heartening because that meant the day was still young. There was still plenty of time for rescue to come.

But it was discouraging because it had already felt like hours. Mitch was growing weary; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this.

That was stupid to think, though. He’d do it as long as it took, no matter what the emotional or physical toll on him might be. The real problem was that he didn’t know how much longer Brody could do this. Last night, Mitch had known infection was a bad sign, but he’d still counted on Brody being somewhat coherent and mobile today. The fever was climbing faster than he’d anticipated; the infection was spreading at a rate he hadn’t planned on.

Worse, rescue was taking much longer than he’d initially hoped. His initial estimates had been optimistic, Mitch would concede that, but this was going to be their third day on the island. Three days and Mitch hadn’t seen a plane or a boat anywhere.

For as much as he trusted his team to keep looking until the job was done, they were only human. They had limits, and the ocean was big. That had always been a selling features -- shit, hadn’t he pitched the size to Brody just three days ago? -- but it was working against him now. In the stark light of day, he wanted to discredit his calculations from the night before. But Mitch knew himself; he wasn’t wrong about shit like this.

Besides, he was a lifeguard. He’d gone to drag people out of the surf and been too late. It happened, even to the best lifeguards and the best teams. At least, on the beach, he was able to see where someone went down. His team was just doing guesswork about Mitch’s route and the storm activity in the area.

Guesswork in the ocean? Took time.

Mitch gritted his teeth, trying not to listen to the way Brody’s breath scraped against his lungs now. People who got lost at sea; that was a whole different ball game. Some of them were successful; those were the ones that made headlines and were turned into feel good stories on the 10 o’clock news.

The ones that didn’t turn out so good? The ones where the wreckage was found floating on the water? The ones where the bodies were washed up on shore in pieces years down the line? The ones where there was never any trace at all?

Mitch knew they were more common than the rescues. Gilligan’s Island was fantasy. This shit in real life meant people died.

He had to think that his own case had made headlines already. The local media knew who Mitch was; he was there go-to guy for beach related coverage. And the fact that Brody was missing? A decorated Olympic gold medalist? In swimming no less?

Shit, the irony alone made it all front page news. Enough to make national headlines, probably. It’d be trending on Yahoo and Twitter by now.

And it wouldn’t do them any good.

Sure, a few more boats might join the search along the coast. Maybe people would keep their eyes open during their fishing expeditions or whale watching tours. Everyone would want it to be a happy ending, a story of two natural-born swimmings overcoming the elements.

No doubt, there would be just as many insatiable headlines if things didn’t turn out well. If Brody died out here? Well, it’d be a tale of a man who should have known better, a story of a swimmer who got in over his head. It’d be a classic cautionary tale, not to take the ocean’s might for granted.

The thing was, Brody hadn’t.

None of this had been Brody’s idea from the start.

And now, the dumbass wasn’t even going to get the chance to say I told you so.

Mitch shook his head, derailing that line of thought. He couldn’t afford blind optimism, but dark negativity wouldn’t do him any good either. There was still a chance. Mitch had the choice to keep fighting.

He had to hold fast, stay true, remain constant.

Those were things that defined Mitch.

He wished they didn’t seem so hard for him to do now.

-o-

The past few days, Mitch had kept himself busy with whatever tasks he could come up with. He had plenty of ideas of things that he could do, but he found that he couldn’t move.

He wouldn’t move.

He didn’t want to risk coming back to find Brody in distress again. What if Brody rolled toward the fire? What if he managed to get his feet and stumbled into the ocean?

This time, the only active thing to do was to sit on his ass and watch Brody sleep.

It was a task Mitch was dedicated to, for certain.

It was also a task that made the morning seem interminably long.

Mitch had never had much problem keeping himself entertained; he wasn’t the sort of guy who needed constant stimulation. He didn’t even like having a smart phone all that much. In fact, back home, a day sitting on the beach would have sounded pretty damn nice.

This was not the context he could enjoy, however.

All he could do was sit and watch the horizon, eyes scanning the sky. He measured time by the ragged rise and fall of Brody’s chest throughout the long hours of the morning. Brody kept breathing, at least.

And rescue did not come.

-o-

Mitch own stomach was grumbling long before the sun hit its apex, but Mitch forced himself to wait. It was probably a little silly, but he didn’t want to eat before Brody this time, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for another eating session with a semi-conscious man.

Still, if he was starving, Brody had to be more so. Mitch had the ability to choose when he ate and when he didn’t; Brody’s fever had robbed him of that choice. Which meant, it was up to Mitch to make it for him.

He was used to be the responsible one where Brody was concerned. This was probably a somewhat unfair assumption, given that Brody’s performance on the job had been pretty much above par during his tenure as a lifeguard. He’d had a rocky start, but once he’d made the choice to be committed to Baywatch, he hadn’t wavered.

Nonetheless, Mitch had a hard time as seeing him as other than the jackass Olympian who needed to be taken down a peg or twenty. Brody did little to dispel this in some regards, considering that he was still crashing in Mitch’s spare room and still seemed to be perpetually broke and prone to getting drunk whenever he had an off night.

His ability to make an idiot of himself wasn’t something he’d ever denied; in fact, Brody was always the first to own up to his own stupidity. It was one of his most endearing qualities; he was really good at apologizing. Mitch reasoned that was because he had a shit-load of practice.

But none of that was quite fair, in the end. Brody was learning, and it had become clear to Mitch over the last few months that Brody had never had a good role model to learn by. Brody didn’t talk much about his past -- not about his childhood in foster care or his exploits with the Olympic team -- but he generally indicated that he’d never had a family, never had a home, never had a purpose beyond his own physical well being.

To think of what he’d been what he came to Baywatch compared to what he was now -- and Mitch had to admit, it was an impressive, if still ongoing, transformation.

Brody probably didn’t need Mitch watching over him when he was on duty in tower two. He probably didn’t need Mitch quizzing him on the lifeguard handbook when he’d aced the test a few months ago. He didn’t need Mitch to coach him on the basics of a rescue or CPR for dummies. Shit, all he really needed was someone to teach him how to use a bank account and to help him find hobbies that didn’t involve drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

What he did not need was some oceanic asshole dragging him out on the water to prove some kind of damn point. So what if Brody didn’t love the water? It didn’t make sense to Mitch, but maybe it didn’t have to?

The problem was, Mitch had already made that choice.

Now he had to live with the results.

For himself.

And for Brody

Thus resigned, Mitch peeled an orange and refilled both cups of water. Then, he sat down in the sand, cautious but ready as he reached out to Brody.

At first, he thought about just taking Brody’s shoulder, but the sweat on his forehead had been accumulating. Mitch couldn’t help himself when he extended his hand to wipe it away.

He winced at the heat he found there.

The fever was worse than before. Mitch didn’t have a thermometer, but Brody had to be hovering around 103 now. The midday sun wasn’t helping, for sure, but the infection was taking a quick hold.

And here Mitch was, thinking he could fight it with oranges and water.

It was better than nothing, he supposed.

But as he tried to rouse Brody, he couldn’t deny that it sort of did feel like nothing.

Still.

Shit.

Still.

“Hey, Brody,” Mitch said. “It’s time for a little lunch now.”

Brody flinched, his face turning up toward Mitch’s touch.

“You need some food, some water,” Mitch said. “You think you can do that?”

With fluttering eyelids, Brody made a distance noise that could have been an affirmation. It could have just as easily been a voice of dissent. Or Brody could have just moaned.

Mitch chose to be positive. “That’s right,” he said. “I know we’ve had a lot of them, but I do have a nice orange here.”

Brody’s eyelids were still fluttering, and he mumbled something that almost sounded like a word this time.

Mitch picked up the water first, deciding to start easy. “Here,” he said, holding the cup in front of Brody. When he didn’t seem to see it, Mitch shifted his weight, carefully scooping up Brody’s head off the sand to help position him better for the drink.

There was a mewl of protest, but Brody wasn’t in any position to actually fend him off.

Determined, Mitch held the cup, brushing it against Brody’s lips and hoping he’d get the idea. He did -- sort of -- and after a spluttering drink, Brody seemed at least marginally aware of what was happening now.

Mitch gave him another drink before trying his luck with an orange.

“We’ll do a small bite here,” Mitch said, though he knew at this point it was more for his own benefit than Brody’s. It was good he’d broken the orange up in advance since he still had to fully support Brody’s head in order to keep him off the ground.

It was awkward as hell to basically shove fruit in Brody’s mouth, but Mitch didn’t think that waiting around would do much good. Brody had figured the water out; Mitch had to hope he’d make sense of the fruit as well.

Brody seemed a little taken aback by the sudden appearance of food in his mouth, but he did start to chew. However, the chewing lasted on a few moments before his attention seemed to slip, and his eyes were fluttering closed again.

“Hey,” Mitch said, giving the smallest jostle to Brody’s head. “You just need to chew it, man.”

Brody blinked up at him a few times, showing no signs of recognition. He did, however, continue to chew for several more seconds before drifting off again. It took several more tries to get Brody to chew sufficiently, and swallowing was its own ordeal. After nearly 30 minutes, Brody had consumed three-quarters of the orange before Mitch finally stopped trying out of pity for himself and for Brody.

To be safe, he washed the orange down with water, giving Brody enough to make sure that there was nothing left in his mouth to choke on.

The process left Brody exhausted, clearly, since he already lapsed back into unconsciousness by the time Mitch lowered his head back to the sand.

Sitting back up, Mitch felt ready for a nap as well. His energy was drained. It could have been the accumulation of three days stranded on a deserted island. Or it could just have been the weight of making another human being chew for a half hour.

Either way, Mitch sat back heavily on the sand, looking at the remaining food he’d left out for his own lunch.

Shit, he thought as he took a bite, chewing slowly and purposefully. This day was just getting worse.

-o-

The afternoon didn’t get better.

The day remained bright, clear and sunny, but there was nothing on the horizon. No planes; no boats; no miracles.

On the beach, the situation was even more grim. Brody was steadily getting worse. As the day wore on, Brody’s sleep grew restless. He cried out and whimpered for no apparent reason, and there was no comfort Mitch could offer that made any difference. The wound was worsening, but it was impossible to say if Brody’s discomfort was from the wound itself or the onset of the high fever. Probably both.

All it meant was that Brody was in agony.

And Mitch couldn’t do anything.

He cleaned the wound more often, just to make himself feel useful. As the sun grew hot in the afternoon, Mitch tore the lining out of his swim trunks and washed it thoroughly, first in the salt water and then in the stream. When it seemed sufficiently clean, he made sure it was saturated with water, going upstream where the water was cooler in the shade of the trees.

With the damp cloth, he made his way back to the beach, spreading the cloth over Brody’s burning forward head. He could feel the heat sucking up the liquid, and the wetness matted Brody’s sweaty hair even more against his head. It took a matter of minutes for the cloth to go from cool to lukewarm, and Mitch promptly repeated the process.

Did it help?

How the hell was Mitch supposed to know?

But he trusted his gut. He trusted his balls.

Brody breathed a little easier, the tension eased just a little in his shoulders.

Given the kind of day they were having, Mitch counted that as good enough.

-o-

Mitch kept vigilant, changing the cloth in frequent intervals as he maintained his position overlooking the water. He caught himself nodding off a few times, forcing himself to keep drinking and eating in order to keep himself from sleeping on the job.

All the same, the day was hot. The horizon was clear. And the cool water seemed to be helping.

A little bit of sleep wasn’t a bad thing.

A little bit was even inevitable.

That was what Mitch thought when he closed his eyes.

When he startled himself awake a short time later, he cursed himself for the weakness. He might have continued to berate himself -- the island was deserted, after all -- but he noticed that something had changed.

Not on the horizon; not in the sky. Mitch’s luck hadn’t changed that dramatically.

But Brody.

He was awake.

And he was looking right at Mitch.

“Brody?” Mitch asked, bracing himself for an incoherent reply.

But Brody surprised him with a subdued nod. “You were -- sleeping,” he said. His voice had grown weaker, even from this morning. The halting lilt of his sentence suggested both pain and exhaustion, but the fact that he was aware of what was going on was more than enough for Mitch.

He grinned. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, giving a quick glance at the sky. Judging by the direction of the sun, he’d been out for about 30 minutes. It was pushing late afternoon by now. He’d have to think about dinner soon.

But not now.

Not when he finally had Brody awake.

Brody swallowed, a slow and purposeful motion. “You look -- like shit.”

There was something so sincere in that statement, though that hardly made it less ridiculous. Mitch smirked, the comfortable banter bringing back their rhythm. “You haven’t seen a mirror.”

Brody let out a small huff like he knew exactly what Mitch was talking about. “Yeah,” he said. “I feel -- like shit. A lot of -- shit.”

“You’ve been out of it for awhile, so you probably don’t realize how much of an understatement that is,” Mitch told him.

With a look of vague bemused, Brody glanced down the beach. “Still -- no rescue?”

There was no hope in the question; only disappointment. And a sense of inevitability.

Mitch found himself sobering at the idea that Brody might think that rescue wasn’t coming. “Not yet, but you know how big the ocean is,” he said. “It’s going to take some time, but they’re coming, buddy. I guarantee you that they’re coming for us.”

Mitch was giving it all, to be confident and resolute and sure. That was usually enough; Mitch carried enough gravitas that people believed him even when he was full of shit.

He wasn’t exactly full of shit now, but Brody had been impaled, cauterized and stranded on a desert island. It was probably to be expected that his sense of trust had been diminished by the ordeal.

“So that’s -- that’s it,” Brody said, pausing to press his lips together as a wave of discomfort passed over him. “We wait?”

There was something in that question. Something that Mitch didn’t quite know what to do with.

He could tell Brody that was that. There was no choice. They waited and hoped and yearned for the best.

But Brody had already put a lot of stock into Mitch’s promises.

Too much.

Maybe more than Mitch deserved.

And he still remembered the view from the far side of the island. He remembered the star calculations.

Brody didn’t deserve half the shit that had happened over the last few days.

Which was why he was entitled to the full truth.

And the choices that followed.

Mitch drew a breath wearily, sitting forward to look at Brody intently. “Well, technically, there is another choice.”

Brody looked surprised by this. “Yeah?”

There was no turning back now. “I’ve done some calculating, based on the stars and the length of the island chain,” he explained. “Frankly, I don’t think we’re as far out to sea as I thought we were. We cut a hard course toward land during the storm, which took us far south of our original logged plan. That’s why the rescue’s so slow in coming. It did, however, also put us within what I think is swimming distance.”

Brody watched him, as if he wasn’t sure if Mitch was actually speaking English.

Mitch gathered himself, nodding himself into continuing. “Which means I think we’re within my maximum swim radius,” he said. “I mean, no doubt, it’d be a haul, but we might be able to make it to shore. But we don’t even have to make it that far. Once we get a few miles out from land, we’d probably start hitting recreational traffic or a shipping lane. We could swim for it.”

He said it like it made total sense, but the words sounded more ostentatious out loud than they had in his head last night. There were many parts of the plan to pick apart, but Brody appeared to be stuck on the most fundamental problem.

“We?”

Brody was sick and weak, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew he was in no condition to swim. He knew that Mitch’s plan wasn’t one that included him.

“Me,” Mitch clarified soberly. “But if I go, I’d be able to bring back help. I mean, give me a day to make the swim, but I’d know exactly where the island is. Rescue could be within hours. And if it takes me longer than that, you’re still here on the island with a fire. You’d be found within the search radius. We’d just be improving our odds.”

Brody did not look convinced in the slightest. His concern wasn’t for himself, however. “But you,” he started, brow furrowed in consternation now as he drew a halting breath taut with emotion. “Miles? You’re not -- not in prime -- condition, Mitch.” He had to pause, laboriously inhaling enough to continue. “You could drown. You’re -- you’re good. But miles? Like -- like this?”

It was such a far cry from the selfish bastard who first showed up on his beach that Mitch was taken aback. He shouldn’t have been, though. This was Brody, right here. This was Brody when he was part of Baywatch, committed, sold out and in it to the end.

That made what Mitch say next carry even more weight. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

It was cryptic enough that Mitch thought Brody might not get it, even if he were operating at peak mental capacity. But, sick as he was, Brody still understand. The understanding dawned over him, crystallizing in his blue eyes with a clarity that he’d otherwise lacked that day. “Oh,” he said, and he swallowed hard. “You think -- you think I’ll be dead. When you -- when you get back. You think I won’t make it.”

Mitch was shaking his head as he said it, too fast, too furious. His denial was easy to spot as just that: denial of reality. “I’m not saying that,” Mitch told him, unable to say anything different. “It’s just that you need some help right now. That infection’s got you messed up, buddy. Water, the fire -- all of that. You’d have to do it without me.”

Mitch intended this to be his way of fortifying his commitment.

But Brody interpreted it as a way out for Mitch. “But you,” he started. “You’d get off. You’d -- you’d get home. To Baywatch.”

“Without you? What’s the point,” Mitch said. “This choice, it isn’t about me this time. This is about you. I’m not in any danger here, but your survival is in my hands. The choice we make about me will determine your odds. If I go, you’re on your own but you could get off faster. If I stay, I can make sure you have everything you need except a hospital, which is the thing you need most.”

The dichotomy seemed blunt that way. Brody might die on his own from preventable complications if Mitch left. If he stayed, Brody might die for a lack of rescue that Mitch was in a position to provide if he left.

It wasn’t fair.

But none of this was fair anymore.

Mitch thought he should be used to it, but he wasn’t.

Brody seemed to handle the starkness of the dichotomy better than Mitch did. After several thoughtful moments, he looked up at Mitch. “Those are -- are it?” he asked. “The choices?”

The choices sucked.

Mitch knew it.

Brody knew it.

Everyone else would know it if they weren’t the only ones there.

It was enough to shake Mitch’s spirit.

Brody, however, was strangely undaunted. In fact, he offered Mitch a smile. “Back to -- th-those rocks and hard places.”

The fact that Brody was still finding that rhythm just made Mitch hate the situation more. And he did hate it. He hated it more than he had hated just about anything. This was right up there with putting on loafers.

And what the hell, if it would save Brody? Mitch would wear those damn loafers.

It wouldn’t, though.

Mitch sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Strangely nonplussed, Brody almost managed a shrug from his inert position on the sand. “Nah, it’s cool,” he said, voice a little steadier if no stronger now. “I’m good at this.”

“This?” Mitch asked, wondering if Brody had previous experience being shipwrecked that he had failed to disclose.

“Well, not this,” Brody conceded. “But choosing be-between two -- bad things? Story of my life.” He made a diffident face to prove his point. “Usually turns out o-okay.”

That was a hell of a thing to say. Mitch knew how to roll with the punches, and he’d taken a lot of this disastrous trip in hand. But Brody was actively resigning his existence to the lesser of two evils. Mitch wanted to think that was overstated.

Looking at Brody, at how calm he was when he was literally dying on a deserted beach, he had a suspicion that Brody wasn’t delirious this time.

“Yeah?” Mitch prompted because, despite himself, he wanted to know. “How do you figure that?”

“Man,” Brody said. “This -- this isn’t even the w-worst choice.”

“How is this not the worst?” Mitch asked.

Brody drew a breath, as if the summon the courage and the strength. But he did not hesitate to continue his story. “The Olympics,” he started, having to take another quick breath and lick his dry lips. “Afterward. When I-I got arrested.”

Mitch hadn’t really thought through what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. In retrospect, it probably should have been. “Oh,” was all he managed to say.

Brody was under no obligation to say more, but he’d started this story. Mitch could tell, for whatever reason, he wanted to finish it. “You-you knew,” Brody continued, inclining his head forward. “Baywatch was p-part of the p-plea deal. I had the -- the letter, so -- I talked big -- you know.”

Mitch remembered. Vividly. When he’d told One Direction to take a hike back to Iowa.

“But without th-that deal,” Brody staggered on. “I-I was looking at j-jail. L-like years. Gone.”

The way Brody said it, it reeked with finality. It would have been the end of Brody’s hopes, dreams and any chance at a career.

“B-Baywatch, though. L-lifeguarding,” Brody said, making a little face. “I had -- to -- you know -- act big. B-because I had t-two gold medals, and -- they wanted me to lifeguard. It was disgrace, y-you know? The options -- they sucked, man.” He forced back another swallow with the slightest grimace. “They sucked.”

It was hard for Mitch to imagine, Baywatch as the lesser of two evils. Honestly, that attitude was part of the reason he’d disliked Brody so much in the beginning. Baywatch was amazing, and Brody was damn lucky Mitch had played along with the plea deal.

But from Brody’s perspective, having it forced on him, he could see how that might be hard.

He could see how playing the big man on the beach might have been the only defense mechanism against the inevitable shame and embarrassment that dogged him when he made the choice.

“B-but I -- I don’t know,” Brody added, using a small, self deprecating smile now. “Still turned out -- cool.”

At that, Mitch chuckled. “For all of us,” he agreed magnanimously.

Brody smiled, something of relief now. “Trust me -- Mitch,” he said. “This -- a-all this -- it’ll be fine.”

“You sound pretty confident about that,” Mitch said, giving him a quizzical look.

“Well,” Brody said. “Shock, right?”

Mitch found himself laughing again. “Definitely shock.”