Clay was not comfortable. In fact, he was miserable. He was hot. He was itchy. He ached. His leg hurt. His side hurt. His hip hurt. His head hurt. He hurt. He was wet. And sticky. And he was quite sure that foul smell, was him.

He wanted…..relief.

The ladies with him, were kind, gentle and wanted to be helpful, but his memories of who they were, were distant and he didn't know them well enough to trust them, take anything from them, and all they wanted to do...was give him things.

The pillow upon which his head rested, was too hot; he flipped it over, it was too cold. One minute, it was hard as a rock, made his head ache; the next, it was too soft, his head sank, made his neck stiff. He pushed it aside, laid his head flat, the mattress was too firm, made his cheek ache. If he laid on his back, eyes towards the ceiling, the room spun and objects floated – making it impossible for him to keep his eyes open. And when they were closed, he was forced to rely on his other senses and his hearing remained on the fritz.

All combining to make him antsy.

No position was sustainable for long…some part of him or another, ached or throbbed or thumped….he truly felt awful. The room was stuffy, the bed entrapped him. The light was dim, cast shadows, played tricks on him – you know, like revealing moving furniture and hovering clocks and remotes.

He liked the bathroom. Nothing moved in there. Shadows didn't dance on the walls. The floor, though hard, was blessedly cool and nothing wrapped around his legs or stuck to his skin.

It was just….every time he escaped his wet, muggy cocoon and made it to the welcoming comfort of the bathroom floor, he was 'retrieved' and coaxed back to bed.

Damn Grandma! If she'd just leave him the fuck alone….he could remain on the cold, hard floor and wallow all he wanted. He could damn well take care of himself, he didn't need someone telling him what to do, where to go, where to stay.

"Oh, no you don't." Mrs. Bonsky muttered when Clay bunched the sheets in his fists. "You never quit, do you?"

Edna Bonsky was the oldest of ten children from the backwoods of Kentucky. She had helped raise her siblings, as well as seven children of her own in those mountains and had yet to lose one. She had numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren – generations came early in the hills – as well as countless nieces and nephews and so forth and so on, and never, had she encountered such a restless, fidgety, fretful child in all her life as the man currently trying to crawl away from her and the comfort of his queen size bed.

He did not sleep.
He did not lie still.
He squirmed, he wiggled, he twitched, he rolled, and flipped, and flopped.
He did not listen.
He did not tolerate what she did to cool him down.
He would not leave the cold cloth on his forehead.
He did not like her attempts to wipe the sweat from his face and neck.
He would not leave the sheets alone.
He would not part his teeth for a spoon of pudding.
He would not drink.
She couldn't convince or coax him to consume anything to remain hydrated.
She could not keep him in bed.
He was overly fond of the bathroom floor.

"In all my years." She muttered. "Never have I come across the likes of you." She no longer liked the fancy thermometer. Every time she read it – every thirty minutes – it remained steady at 103.4. Had for the last two hours. Accurate indeed, the damn thing.

He refused her offer/demands to 'open up and swallow' either Tylenol or Advil and numerous cool cloths and 'sponge baths' failed to bring it down. To be fair, it didn't go up either, but she didn't like it being over 102.

"Where you going now, you little bugger?" She snagged an ankle, halted his progress. He didn't try and kick free, just went boneless, limp on the mattress. "As if I didn't know." Great, she was talking to herself – proof she was finally going senile. She wasn't as young as she was when she'd sat up all night with one of her own kids, so perhaps, she was just tired. "I'd swaddle you, I thought it'd do any good. Never had one baby get loose, but…" she tapped his nose with a fingertip. "…then there's you."

Every time she turned around, reached for something, looked away, nodded off – and did he always know? – he turned and twisted, rolled to his belly, gained his knees and crawled off the bed. He always went to the bathroom, ended up on the floor.

He didn't show signs of delirium. He wasn't hallucinating. He just wasn't content to stay put. Well, not true. He was, just not where she wanted him to 'stay put'.

"No wonder your team always loses you." She tugged the sheet from beneath him, it was damp and she sighed. "Bet you never stayed in a crib. I had one of those, could climb anything." She eyed the scar on his thigh, knew it extended towards his groin, hidden by the tight, soft material of his boxer briefs. "Hell of a scar, my boy."

"He was blown up." Betty yawned. She stretched, sat up, glanced at the clock. She and her mother were switching every hour. "What's he doing now?" She asked sleepily. She'd been dozing, not sleeping and she ached, her joints stiff from napping upright in the chair. Would this night ever end? The rain ever stop?

"Trying to kiss the bathroom floor." Mrs. Bonsky told Betty, didn't push the subject of the scar. "What ails the boy? Perfectly good, comfy bed right here and he doesn't want to stay in it."

"Tile is cooler."

"But hardly sanitary."

"Don't suppose it matters." Betty sighed.

"We are not letting him sleep on that disgusting floor."

"No." She agreed. "We're not. And he probably wouldn't stay there long anyway." She got to her feet at a loud, obnoxious knock on the door. "Can't reach Eric, even the sat phone's unable to get a signal." A louder, harder knock. "Yeah, yeah, on my time Mr. Lopez."

"He's been knuckling his ear." Mrs. Bonsky said. "The last forty minutes or so."

Bangbangbang.

"I've got it." She crossed the room while Betty diverted to approach the bed. Bangpoundbangpound. Bangbangbang. "Here now, cease that pounding, you rude guttersnipe." She swung the door open, expecting to confront a sleepy-eyed Vic, not two large, wet, muddy, murky figures that loomed menacingly in the odd, dim light, filling the doorway.

Mrs. Bonsky shrieked.
Betty jumped.
Clay was on his feet, pointing his Glock with a steady hand towards the door.

"The hell he'd get a gun?" Metal let Trent enter the room first. "Hey now, no need for that shrieking, I ain't that bad looking."

"Scott." Betty greeted, grappling for her mother who was doing some odd dance, like she was barefoot on hot pavement. "Mom…Mom! MOM!"

"Mrs. Blackburn." Metal's muddy grin was actually terrifying and not at all reassuring. "Howdy."

"We're being robbed! Oh my! Oh my! Not my pearls! Not. My. Pears! Over my dead body, you'll get my pearls!"

"Mom, stop." Betty said wearily, she was just too tired to deal with anything more. "No one is here to take your pearls; these men are Clay's teammates."

Both Metal and Trent silently noted she didn't include Vic.

Mrs. Bonsky went still. "Say what?"

"Eric sent them."

"You know them?" Mrs. Bonsky asked, palm against her racing heart. She leaned out the door, peered left, then right. "Any more of you?" If her daughter wasn't scared of these behemoths, she had no reason to be either.

"We're it." Metal said, impressed with how fast she'd calmed down. "Spenser, get that gun out of my face or I will flip you over 'til you puke, you fucking little pipsqueak."

Trent knew better than to waste time trying to talk to Clay. He entered the room, dropped his backpack and duffle without breaking stride and crossed the room. In a blur, he swiped the gun from Clay's hand, tossed it to Metal, swept the kid off his feet and swung him one-armed onto the bed while Metal disarmed the gun and made it disappear.

"What the….? Now, see here! Just who do you think you are? Here now, you just don't get to barge in and take control! Elizabeth, do something!"

"Find Lopez." Trent told Metal who nodded and melted out of the room so fluidly, Mrs. Bonsky wasn't sure she'd ever seen him.

"This is Trent." Betty told her mother. "That was Metal."

"Trent, the medic?"

"The medic."

"So, your husband's men." She didn't sound impressed, tied her bathrobe tighter. "You know Elizabeth, he should really teach his men some manners. Their language! Can he not hold classes? Barge in here like….."

"Mom!"

Within seconds, the room glowed brightly from two LED lanterns. Trent refused to work in bad light or darkness when he didn't have to. The light provided by the lanterns only lit the immediate area of the bed, but it was good enough.

For now.

Trent didn't acknowledge the ladies, didn't speak, snagged Clay who was on his knees and in the process of climbing off the bed, flipped him onto his back.

"So, how's the weather out there?" Mrs. Bonsky quipped, no longer willing to be ignored. "Took you long enough to get here."

"Mom."

"Well, really Liz, if they were coming, they could have come sooner."

"Mom."

"You know, before we spent the night trying to keep him in bed and off the bathroom floor."

"Hurricane Mom. They didn't drive."

"Harrumph, that husband of yours couldn't send them via some secret military contraption my tax dollars pay for?" She countered. "I'm sure they have an Airwolf stashed somewhere and he has access to it. If they can climb up a ladder into a chopper, I'm sure they can climb down out of one."

"Mom."

"Hey, here now." She stepped forward. "I've kept the boy clean and dry for hours while you diddly-dallied making your way here. Don't you go leaving him all dirty and muddy. I just changed those sheets!"

"MOM!"

"Well, you know I did." Her mother said defensively. "I had to go to the housekeeping closest and get them myself!"

"MOM!"

"He could at least wash his hands, take off his wet coat before he soils the sheets. Does he think we have an unlimited supply? Can't do laundry, you know. Why, I…."

"MOTHER!"

Mrs. Bonsky sniffed, went into the bathroom, should the call for towels or water come, she'd be ready. She watched from the distance of the doorway while Trent snagged a backpack she very much doubted she could lift, sat it on the chair she'd just vacated, opened flaps, pockets, zippers, and proceeded to examine Clay: Pulse, breathing, eyes, gun shots, bruised hip, kidney bruise, every cut, scrape and road rash on him.

Everything the doctor should have done and didn't.

Look at that! Just. Look. At. That.

Stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer. Scissors, hemostats, knives, scalpels, razors, clamps. Canisters, packages, bottles, tubes, bags….wait, what the hell was that? Was that blood? It wasn't, was it? It was! It was a bag of blood! It looked just like those ones at the blood drive.

Now, Mrs. Bonsky didn't know very much about how blood was stored. She'd given gallons over her lifetime to the local blood drive, but had no idea what they did with it. That TV show – the one with the tormented vampire who had his soul restored by gypsies – had kept his refrigerated, so unless there was a mini-fridge in that bag…..

"How long his fever been this high?" With a wickedly sharp knife, he cut through the bandage around Clay's thigh, sliced the tape in two, removed the gauze pads, nodded with satisfaction. "Damn Lopez, finally found something you did right."

"Been steady for the last two hours." Betty told him. "And he hasn't had any meds because he won't take them." She rubbed her temples. "He doesn't like it when we try and cool him down either, but will leave a cold cloth on his forehead for a few minutes."

"Cause he doesn't know you." Trent replied. "And he's hot and it feels good, 'til it doesn't He doesn't like water on his face and even warm water on his arms and chest, will make him feel cold."

Trent? Was that Trent? Trent? That you, ole buddy, ole pal?

"…..you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna tie your hands behind you and slap duct-tape over your mouth," Metal was saying as he led a sleepy-eyed Vic into the room. "Hang you on the back of the door, kick you heels, I dare you, see what the fuck happens to you."

"The hell's your problem?" Vic jerked his arm free. "Why'd ya go and get me up? Can't a man sleep in peace around here?"

'bout time, you took your sweet time gettin' here, didn't ya?

"Go ahead, keep yakkin'. Ain't no Ray here, take your side." Metal closed the door. "Why I always gotta suffer the damn fools?"

"She'll slap you upside the head with a slipper, you use that kind of language." Vic warned with a yawn. "Trent." Great, the surly medic was here. Oh, yay!

"You were in bed?" Trent didn't even glance over, but oh, his voice held a tone.

Trent was here! Yay! Woot-woot!

"Well, yeah, it's like, what? Almost dawn."

"It's past dawn."

Okay, now, Trent? Stop givin' Lopez all your attention….make me feel better.

"Whatever."

"You shoot him, and leave him with two women he barely knows?"

You did. He did. Haha, now you're gonna get it.

"He doesn't need care." Vic huffed. "No infection. I took care of it. For Christ's sake, he's fine. Why won't anyone believe me?"

"103.4 fever?"

Mrs. Bonsky hadn't seen Trent take the boy's temperature, but she was enjoying seeing Vic served a set-down.

"I didn't know it was that high. I told them to come get me, it went over 103."

"Come get you? You left him with them all night?" Trent paused, now he did glance over. "You know, he'd've taken Tylenol from you, right?"

Mrs. Bonsky cackled. Oh, she was liking Trent-the-medic.

"What are you even doing here?" Vic asked crossly. What the hell was he going on about, anyway? Tylenol? Pfft. "Blackburn send you?"

"You. Shot. Him." Metal reiterated, in case Trent hadn't been clear. "Hell Lopez, you don't think firing your weapon in public, warranted a call to your commanding officer?"

"It wasn't heard by anyone. No one else was stupid enough to be out in that weather."

"You don't know that."

"Wait, you're pissed at me? Aren't you pissed you had to walk…swim….whatever to come here…because of him?" He pointed at Clay. "I didn't ask you to come, not my fault you hadda come after him."

"How's'it not your fault, you douche?" Metal shot back. "You fucking shot him."

"Winged him." Vic corrected, went ignored. "You wanna lay blame? He never shudda been out there. Shudda listened when…."

"What if it had been someone else you shot? Huh? You think about that?" Metal snorted. "You're an ass. You think I wanted to leave my wife, drive to bumfuck nowhere to accompany his ass," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Trent, "navigate flooded roads in the middle of a hurricane in a fucking canoe, because you went and shot Bravo's baby?"

"Your wife? That was she is?" Vic taunted. "And if he needed anyone, it'd be Trent, you didn't have to come."

"Tread carefully." Metal warned. "On this team, we don't go solo."

"Guess you're all better now, no more vertigo, you drove down here."

"Next time you trip on a path, take a tumble, and I'm behind you? Won't be an accident."

"Talk to me." Trent told Vic before he could come back at Metal. "He went off the bike?"

"Prick hit me in the chest with the front tire. Ploughed right into me." He waited, but no one said anything. "I'm fine, by the way."

"Nice split lip." Metal smirked. "Lips." He corrected. "Got that from a tire in the chest, did ya?"

"You jumped out of the bushes into his path." Mrs. Bonsky chimed in. "Rather childish, but then, look who I'm talking to."

"It was a prank! Who the hell expected him to wreck the damn bike?" Vic retorted. "We pull them all the time to break the monotony, ease tension."

"In my day, your behind would be warmed by a paddle, you pulled a prank like that! Your entitled generation got a time-out and look…where...we...are!"

"Why you ol…" Vic stepped forward, was pushed back by Metal.

"Thinkin' Trent asked you a question."

Vic scowled, shot Metal a look, grudgingly acquiesced. "He wrecked the bike, went over the handlebars, slid down a hill, hip hit a rock. He saw the doc, just a bruise, some road rash."

"The same doc who didn't recognize a modern thermometer?"

"You know Trent, he's a grown man with the skills and training to know whether or not his hip became detached from his ass."

"That's not even possible." Mrs. Bonsky said.

"Mom."

"Well, it's not!"

"I can't believe you two came here."

"Was he wearing a helmet?"

Silence from the ladies. Vic scowled.

"So, no." Trent was holding up an eyelid, flashing a penlight into Clay's eye. "You checked him for a concussion, right?" He repeated the process with the other eye. "Right?" Silence. "Didn't you?" Silence. "So, you didn't."

"He didn't land on his head."

"And that matters?" Trent grimaced at Clay's wet hair, but dug his fingers through the thick curls to reach scalp, searched for lumps or bumps, found neither. Nor did he find cuts or abrasions, not even a tender spot.

Aaah, that feels wonderful...that spot, right there...oh yeah. Love ya Trent old buddy.

"He had a headache all day yesterday." Betty said. "As well as the day before, come to think of it."

"How do you know that?" Vic demanded. "He didn't complain about his head hurting"

"He went to the kitchen, asked for a popsicle." She told Trent, turned to Vic. "I talk to people, I don't snub my nose at the," she made air quotes to emphasis her sarcasm, "hired help."

"You didn't know?" Trent said slowly, used a towel to rub Clay's hair. "The hell's the matter with you? You were sent here to keep an eye on him."

"Metal, talk to him." Vic said impatiently. "Make him see reason."

"Make him? Sawyer? See reason? Now, you're just talking shit."

"Your medic wouldn't need to be here, you didn't go pulling stupid pranks, knocking the poor boy into fences and shoving him into pits of mud." Mrs. Bonsky accused. "And, you know, shooting him."

"Christ, you're an ass." Trent spat.

"For fuck's sake, not my fault he can't stay on his own two feet."

"Wait a minute, hold on, lemme get this straight." Metal perched a hip on the corner of the dresser, extended a finger. "Day one, you arrive, settle in to your room, all's good."

The ladies nodded.

"Day two, your first full day here," he paused, waited, again they nodded, "Lopez here, causes him to wreck the bike." He added a second finger. "What else?" Because it was Spenser, so of course there was something else.

"Vic pushed him into the fence." Mrs. Bonsky tattled. "After dinner."

"I did not!" Vic protested. "He fell."

"Because you shoved him."

"He lost his balance! He saw the doc, he was fine."

"You follow up? Check him for deeper bruising? Swelling?" Trent questioned.

"He has a mouth, he can speak up, he has any pain, pisses blood."

Metal ticked off another finger. "So, yesterday, your third day here…."

"Today." Vic corrected. "No, wait, it's past dawn, so yeah, yesterday. I think."

"Shut up." Metal snapped. "Your third day here, you shot him?"

"For the LOVE of God! ENOUGH!" Vic exploded. "You all make it sound like I did it on purpose. I didn't know it was him! He didn't respond when I yelled at him to stop and show his hands! What the hell was I supposed to do? Get attacked?"

"By your teammate?"

"I didn't know….AARRGH!"

"Did you or did you not, push him on into the mud?" Betty asked.

"On purpose." Mrs. Bonsky added.

"I. Did. Not."

"The hell Lopez, you ever know when to quit?" Metal asked. "What mud?"

"The mud pits in the spa room." Betty explained. "Clay spent the morning sleeping until he went into town after Vic."

"He didn't need to come after me. I didn't need fetching." Vic countered irritably. "He stayed here, none of this wudda happened and they wouldn't be here."

"So, it's all his fault?" Metal went silent. He knew Trent, and Vic was talking his way into a future boxing match that would end when he was knocked unconscious after Trent beat the crap out of him. He'd be eating soft foods for a month.

"So, no."

"No, what?" Vic hadn't even noticed Trent had asked him a question. He got the feeling Trent was running some kind of tally to be used later against him.

"And then you shot him." Metal said. "Just, eh, bang-bang, now you're dead, laying in a pool of red. Something like that, eh?"

"What? NO!" Startled, Vic exclaimed, "JESUS CHRIST Metal! The hell!? NO!"

Trent pinned Clay on his right side, palpated along the bruise. Yeah, the kid didn't like that, stirred with a groan, moved his hips away from the annoyance.

Ow..owowowow! Trent! Whoa dude, supposed to be making me feel better, not worse.

"Doesn't feel too good, eh? I know." His thumb hit a particularly tender spot, drew a guttural grunt from a squirming Clay.

"Then stop doing it."

Trent shot Mrs. Bonsky a side-eyed glance, hooked a thumb under the elastic waistband of Clay's boxer briefs, exposed his hip…another bruise, but only a bruise. He let the elastic snap back, finished his exam, pushed Clay onto his back, held him down with a palm on his shoulder.

"Stay still….hey…." Trent smacked him in his belly. "I said, stay still."

"How'd you end up shooting him?" Metal asked. "Don't make no sense, you shot him in the leg like that. Were you on your back?"

"He was wearing a black raincoat that billowed out in the wind. It was dark, just the car headlights and I yelled at him to stop, raise his hands. He didn't. I thought he was a bear."

Didn't look like no fucking bear, you dumbass.

"Shot from an odd angle, to hit him in the outer thigh." Metal stepped closer to the bed when Trent turned his attention to the staples. "Don't look too bad."

"I didn't shoot to kill." Vic muttered haughtily.

"Yet, you thought you were being attacked by…a…bear….?" Mrs. Bonsky smiled sweetly at Vic's growl.

"Y.E.S." Vic uttered lethally. "I yelled at him to stop."

You Did Not!

"Looks good." Trent agreed, mini LED flashlight between his teeth. There was limited swelling from the pull of the skin against the staples, little bruising but no puss, no seepage. Neither wound was red or inflamed and Clay didn't flinch or moan when he applied pressure around both sets of staples with the sides of his thumbs.

"Then what's causin' his fever?"

"Workin' on it." Trent gave Clay's cheek a smart slap. "Hey! Need you to talk to me. Spenser?" Another slap. "Come on, you don't get to ignore me." He tapped the back of his knuckles repeatedly against first one cheek, then the other.

Trent, dude, glad you're here, but stop slappin' me.

Mrs. Bonsky decided she did not like that. "Now listen you, I know the boy is addled, but slapping him into next week certainly isn't going to get you any answers."

"I like her." Metal joked to Betty. "She's feisty."

Trent decided he did not like elderly ladies. They always gave him shit. "Clay, who am I?"

"I'mma hot 'ent."

"Where are you?"

"N'a'o'ven."

"What colors make purple?"

"Mumph?"

"Define dog."

"Woof?"

Trent took hold of Clay's biceps, hauled him off the pillows, gave him a slight shake. His head bobbed, flopped. Another, harder shake and his teeth clacked when his chin hit his chest.

"What kind of questions are those?" Mrs. Bonsky had left the sanctuary of the bathroom, hovered at Trent's elbows. "Have a care, he's rather fragile. He bruises easily."

Vic looked at Metal for his reaction but the gruff man simply returned to his perch on the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, laughing over Clay being described as 'fragile'; felt anger begin to churn in his gut. Had he treated Clay in such a manner in front of anyone from Bravo, he'd be hanging from his toes.

"You gonna let that go?"

"Let what go?"

"He's likely dehydrated." Mrs. Bonsky advised. "Should you do that? You shouldn't do that." She tut-tutted. "Certainly no good can come of you shaking him like a dog playing with a floppy bear."

"Uh huh." Trent gave Clay another hard shake, let him sink back amongst the pillows. Was it the oppressive heat making Clay groggy, disoriented? Causing his red skin? She was right thought, shaking him wasn't going to get the reaction he wanted.

"He's not getting enough to drink." She insisted. "Dehydration will make him dizzy, weak….disoriented." She waved a hand over the bed to make her triumph point. "Does he not have a kidney issue? He should be drinking more, not less. I keep telling that man she married, he wouldn't always be so tired, he drank more fluids. But does he listen? No."

Trent coughed to cover his abrupt desire to giggle. Yes, giggle. Blackburn didn't listen? Oh, if only she knew, her son-in-law was always after the most elite, best physically fit, trained team the Navy had, to drink more fluids.

HeeHeeHeeHaHaHa!

"Blackburn isn't tired because he doesn't consume enough fluids." Metal began with a patient smile, "The lives of his men and the success of their mission…." He stopped when Trent coughed over him. "….uh…um….yeah, flights are long. You know? Cargo plane, and all." He shook his head. "Not a comfortable ride."

Trent didn't think the staples were the cause of the fever, but decided to remove them anyway. Sometimes, it was as simple as skin not liking anything foreign invading its territory. He really didn't like how red Clay's skin was...heat rash, maybe?

"He good?" Metal asked, expected a yes that didn't come. "Trent?" He turned, glad to change the subject. "The hell? Thought the gun shot wasn't that serious?"

"Not that." Trent muttered distractedly. "Somethin'…dunno." He curled a lip into a sneer. "Lopez? Piss poor site rep."

He withdrew an instrument that looked, to Mrs. Bonsky, to be a cross between a pair of pliers and a paper-staple remover. She watched him tear open a package with his teeth, and swab both sets of staples. He blotted them dry and with a flick of his wrist, pulled out all six stables.

Wow, that was fast. And Clay, the little rat, didn't even twitch. Sure, let her approach him with a harmless wash cloth, and he was squirming all over the bed to get away from her...She gritted her teeth, clenched her jaw.

"What'd ya do that for?" Vic surged forward. "The hell Trent, there was nothing wrong with those staples! I may not be up to your standards, but the Navy doesn't find fault with my first aid skills."

She watched the medic as he held green plastic tweezers, snagged a huge wad of cotton, held it against the neck of a brown bottle with no label until it was soaked with the liquid it contained, then dabbed both wounds, let the excess run and drip with no attempt to wipe it up.

"Nothing to do with you." Trent sighed.

Just as Metal said: "Why you gotta make everything about you?"

Betty was beginning to understand why her husband felt Bravo was the best. Trent may not be gentle or soothing, but he was efficient and thorough. She never would have felt comfortable removing the staples, but maybe they were the cause, source of the fever.

Doubtful, by the look of consternation on the medic's face, but possible all the same.

"Something's causing his fever." Trent shrugged. "Gotta decide staples, stitches or glue and he's allergic to Dermabond. Could be as simple as his body fighting the staples." He was digging in his backpack. "Had you stayed with him, he would've taken meds and maybe his fever wudda come down."

"I thoroughly cleaned both." Vic said testily. "And I'm like, two doors down."

"He's not gonna take anything from people he doesn't know."

"What else did you do to him?" Metal asked.

"He knows them!"

True, he did, but Trent thought it more likely Clay had confused the two ladies with the trio of women who had rescued him from the river. He had accepted their help, been medicated with simple medication that he reacted negatively too, and had run all-terrain hills for a month for doing so.

"This look like a rash to you?" Trent asked Metal, who moved closer, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the medic, heads together as they looked closely at Clay's red skin.

"He does look kinda pinkish."

"Say, oh, about two hours ago, wouldn't you say Liz? No, maybe longer? Been a long night you know." Mrs. Bonsky shot Vic a look. "Elizabeth didn't want to leave him alone, has some half-baked notion, if he was out of our sights, we'd – what'd you say Liz? – lose him? We switch every hour….."

Trent and Metal adopted the same impatient look, the same stance, the same tilt to their heads.

"…..one naps, while the other keeps him in our sights. Not as young as we used to be….." She chattered on. "Course, you blink, and quick as that…." She snapped her fingers. "He was out of bed and on the bathroom floor. Why, I tell you, the little bugger can move! He's quick. I've raised many children, and let me say, if I ever had one like him, I'd….."

Exasperated, Trent cut her off. "Do you have a point?"

She did not like being cut off, glared. "He knuckles his ear."

"Which one?"

"Left."

Trent cleaned off Clay's skin, patted it dry, applied steri-strips, taped gauze pads over both wounds. "Bend your leg."

No response.

"Spenser, lift your leg."

Nothing.

"Say the word, I'll sling him over my shoulder." Metal said seriously. "Put him in the canoe, we can tie off to it, walk alongside, swim when we gotta."

Mrs. Bonsky eyes widened. A canoe? They'd come here in a canoe? In this wind, the current, the rain? Good Lord, they had to be cold, hungry, exhausted. Neither had bothered to change, dry off or ask for food.

Trent nodded, but he wasn't ready for such a move. Yet. And he was hoping it wouldn't become necessary. If he could just figure out why Clay was groggy, and mostly unresponsive, he was confident all would be well, right where they were.

They were safe here. Sheltered. Protected. Comfortable. Had food, water and plenty of people to keep an eye on Clay.

"Wanna go see if you can maybe route some electric to this room?" Trent asked him "A/C would be great."

Metal nodded. Vic fumed.

"Him, you ask. Me, you just order around."

"Lopez, enough." Trent said wearily. "I'm too tired for your shit." He pushed wet, muddy hair out of his eyes. "First, I call him friend, I can depend on him. Second, he outranks me. Third, I don't like you."

Betty turned her head to hide her smirk. Mrs. Bonsky chuckled out loud.

"Anything we can do?" Betty asked.

"He usually can be bribed with a milkshake." Trent said, turned to Mrs. Bonsky. "He likes flavored ice chips. We usually have the nursing staff freeze cherry Sprite or 7-Up."

He waited, Mrs. Bonsky looked around. Up, down, all around, back at Trent.

"What are you looking at me for?" She demanded.

"Uh, nursing staff?"

"Who?"

"You." He pointed.

"I'mma what?" She took up at a battle stance. "Now see here, you….."

"Mom?" Betty crossed the room, took her mother's elbow, escorted her to the door Metal held open for them. "Go with Metal. See if you can find the waitress Tabitha. Tell her it's for Clay. She'll help you get whatever you ask for."

"I've had about enough Elizabeth! I have been up all night, changing sheets and finding towels and dragging the boy off that disgusting floor and he regulates me to the kitchen!? Who does he think he is, come in and give everyone orders?! I will not have it! I will not, I say!"

"When one of the team is down, Trent here, is in charge." Metal gallantly offered his arm to a still complaining Mrs. Bonsky. "Even the high and mighty Bravo One follows his orders." The door closed behind them, leaving Vic with an openly hostile Trent and, I-don't-care-what-happens, Betty.

"What?" Vic demanded, hands on his hips. He wasn't going to let anyone fully blame him for what happened. Yes, he'd shot Clay, but his teammate was okay, and he never should have been out in the weather in the first place, and if he hadn't been, he wouldn't have been shot. He was irritable, tired, on edge and sick of getting the shit-end of the stick, so yeah, he felt Clay was partially to blame, and he stupidly told Trent so.

Trent's fisted left hand shot out. Vic's head snapped back.

If Trent had popped him in the mouth like Clay had, he'd need a dentist. As it was, taking the blow on his cheek bone, he wouldn't be seeing outta his left eye for a good week.

"The hell!" Vic rocked back, stumbled into the dresser.

Before Trent could advance, before Vic could charge:

"Trent?" Clay, sitting up in bed, said miserably, "I feel awful."