During the morning hours, the duo made good progress southward. At first, the morphine worked its magic and Callen was easily keeping up with Sam in spite of the raising temperatures. Around noon, Sam called a halt and they rested in the shade of a small scrubby tree.
Not that he would admit it, but Callen was happy for the breather. He carefully leveraged his battered body to the hard ground and without argument, took the water Sam offered him along with a protein bar. The repast helped raise his flagging energy levels which were being ravaged by the constant dull, throbbing of his back and shoulder. The drugs were keeping it tolerable, but he could tell they were starting to wear off once again. Combine that with the fever he was still fighting and the hot, midday sun and this trek became anything but walk in the park. Still, they had no other choice at the moment so when they were rested, by silent mutual agreement, they rose as one and started walking again.
When Sam called the next rest break hours later, Callen didn't even attempt to carefully lower his body to the ground; he literally collapsed in a heap. Sam didn't have to pull out the DAGR to confirm what he knew, their progress, which had been good in the morning, had been severely less in the afternoon. Callen had done his best to keep the pace Sam set, but his body was betraying him. When Sam saw Callen collapse on the ground when they stopped to rest, he decided to search for a place to camp for the night. Though they had at least two hours of daylight left, Sam didn't think Callen could make it another step.
"I'm going to go scout the area, look for a motel," Sam joked.
In a daze, Callen instinctively rose to his feet to follow Sam, took two steps and tumbled back to the ground.
Even though Sam was fighting down his panic at his partner's condition, he said, "Yeh, you wait here with the car."
Callen gave him a haphazard wave goodbye as he flopped over on his right side and curled into the fetal position. Sam started over towards his partner then stopped. Going over there wasn't going to tell him anything more than he already knew and would only get him accused of 'mothering'. Callen was in a relatively safe place, given their locale and it was more important to find a place to hunker down for the night so Sam took note of the time and set off to check the surrounding area.
They were in the lowlands of a series of hills and Sam was fortunate enough to find a sheltered, secluded area on the edge of a clear running stream. Using the water kit from his pack, he tested the water and determined the stream was portable which solved a big problem as they had been running low on drinking water. Hiking back to where he had left Callen, he was dismayed to see his buddy hadn't moved but even more disturbing was he didn't acknowledge Sam's presence until Sam physically touched him. At that point Callen's eyes had sluggishly opened and blearily focused on Sam, though the taller man wasn't sure the injured man recognized him.
"Rise and shine. Found us a campsite," Sam told his muddled partner.
Callen blinked and opened his eyes all the way and ran his tongue over his parched lips. He made a feeble attempt to rise but it took Sam's assistance for him to get totally off the ground. After taking two steps, Callen's knees began to buckle and Sam reached out to hold him up without placing a hand anywhere on Callen's multitude of injuries; it wasn't easy.
"Callen, walk," Sam said sharply trying to get his friend's mind to focus on the task at hand.
The shorter man shook his head and seemed to snap back to reality, at least temporality. He broke free of Sam and stood on his on his own, albeit unsurely, unassisted. "I'm good," he muttered as he started stumbling away, in the wrong direction. Sam got him turned around and they started the short trek towards the stream.
"Do you even know what the word 'good' means?" Sam asked his partner, trying to engage him in conversation hoping it would keep him focused enough to make it to the camp site.
"Uh-huh. Good. Free from injury or disease; not depreciated; commercially sound," he rattled off and Sam was rather impressed his buddy's mind had been able to call up such a coherent, text book answer.
"Хороший, bueno, gut, bon, virty, goed, bem, got," Callen added saying 'good' in several languages.
"See, now you're just showing off," Sam scolded him and Callen gave him a little smirk which made Sam happy. Usually he wanted to wipe that infuriating grin off his partner' face but he had hardly seen it since they'd started this trek and Sam took it as a good sign. "Let's go back to the definition for a moment shall we. I believe you said good meant free of injury or disease. Based on that, how can you rate your current condition as good?"
"Bueno?"
"You're not Hispanic G. You're Romani. How do you say 'good' in that language," Sam queried anything to keep his partner alert and walking.
Callen mentally paused for a moment before responding. "Khushti," he said slowly. "Khushti chava. My mother use to say that to me." He was quiet for a few seconds before speaking again in a low, strained voice. "Khushti chava. No one has ever said that to me since she died." Callen voice caught and he went quiet.
"Translation please. I don't speak Romani," Sam prodded and after his friend answered, he wished he'd left it alone.
Callen's tone became tender with a touch of awe. "My mother used to tell me I was a good boy. I remember her saying that." Then his voice switched to bitter and flat. "No one in any of my foster homes ever told me I was good." After a quick beat he added, "I take that back. They did. But the phrase was a good for nothing boy."
Sam looked over at his partner whose face had grown cold and impassive. "Your mother was right. You are good, a pain in the ass sometimes, but good." Sam was happy when he realized he could hear the stream. "Almost there," Sam added awkwardly and silence reigned as they walked the last few yards to the steam.
Once they got to the spot Sam had chosen for their camp, he made Callen sit on a rock while he arranged the site to his specifications. He built a shallow fire pit using the grey rocks that lined the edge of the stream and then laid the thermal blanket on the ground near its edge; only then did he allow Callen to lay down, afraid that once the battered man hit the blanket he might never raise again for a very long time.
Once Sam had Callen settled in as comfortable position as possible, he went to the stream and filled all their canteens. As he was filling the last bottle, he saw a splash further out in the water and it made a small smile come to his face. Fish.
"Feel like fish for dinner G?" Sam joked as he strolled back into the camp. When he didn't receive a response, sarcastic or otherwise, he took a closer look at his partner and saw he was either asleep or unconscious. Walking over and checking his pulse Sam found it was racing again and he could feel the heat pouring off Callen's skin. Moving back over to the backpack, he brought out the medkit and debated his limited options. He had one syringe left of each morphine and Maxolon, neither which would help with Callen's high fever. There was one shot of antibiotics left but that was supposed to be once a day and it was too soon for a repeat dosage. That only left the Motrin. Grabbing the maximum allowable dosage, Sam filled a cup with water, took it over by Callen and sat down next to his partner.
"G," he spoke softly, "I need you to wake up buddy." Callen muttered something in Russian as he tried to roll away from Sam. Keeping his face neutral but cringing inside, Sam physically manhandled Callen into a seated position trying his best not to place his hands anywhere that would hurt even though he knew that was impossibility. Once he had Callen sitting, Sam shook him lightly trying to rouse him. The fatigued man resignedly opened his eyes but Sam could see there was no recognition in them as to who he was or what was going on. But Sam didn't care since his only goal was to get the Motrin in his friend; hopefully that would reduce the fever and bring Callen back to reality. It wasn't easy and it wasn't pretty, but Sam finally got Callen to swallow the pills. When it was accomplished, he lightly laid Callen down and covered him with the edge of the thermal blanket, though Callen immediately flung it off mumbling 'hot'.
Getting up, Sam snagged a forehead thermometer strip from the medical kit and applied it to Callen's hot forehead. Sam was surprised when it didn't register a temperature. Deciding it must be defective; Sam laid the strip aside, opened a new one and stuck it to Callen's forehead. That one also failed to register a temperature. Peeling it off carefully, he reapplied it to his own forehead for a minute, took it off and saw it registered 98 degrees. Sam repeated the same test with the first one he had used on Callen and got the same result which led him to believe his partner's temperature must be higher than 104 degrees, the highest reading on the strip.
Not sure of anything else to do at the moment other than to give the Motrin a chance to work, Sam got up and went to search for fuel to build a fire. It wasn't hard as there were trees around and dried windfall was easy to find. After he collected enough to last thru the night, he built a fire as the sun began to set.
In the dying twilight, Sam went over and examined Callen again who alternated between shivering, curled tightly in a ball and flinging off the blanket; sweat matted his short hair and ran down his flushed face. Sam tried unsuccessfully to get Callen in ingest some more water knowing dehydration was going to be a problem. The smaller man fought him and panicked when Sam tried to force him to drink so Sam gave up, figuring the stress wasn't good for his partner either.
Though he had no way of an accurately measuring Callen's temperature, instinctually Sam knew it was rising as the night wore on. Callen's thrashings grew violent, punctuated by moments of stillness that rattled Sam even more; he kept going over to the man to reassure his mind that Callen was still alive.
Callen started writhing again so violently that once again Sam hurried to his side and held the fever-ravaged man to his own chest, trying to calm him and stop him from being injured. Sam could feel the heat from Callen's bare skin through his shirt and it felt like the hottest wooden bench Sam had ever sat on in a sauna.
As the cycle broke again, Callen went limp though Sam continued to hold him cradled to his muscular chest. Checking his pulse, Sam could feel it was racing; he had to get Callen's temperature lowered. In the case of heat stroke, hospitals used cold packs around the body to lower temperature. Sam didn't have any of them here but he did have the stream he thought as he eyed the slow moving water in the moonlight; maybe it could serve the same purpose.
The night air wasn't as cold as it had been when they were at the higher elevations of the foothills but still, Sam wanted dry clothes for when they came out of the water. He stripped G down to his briefs and did the same himself before picking up the man in his arms and carrying him to the water. Wading in carefully with his bare feet, he found an area that was a bit deeper and he carefully sank down into the water bringing Callen with him. He found a rock ledge under the surface and sat, holding Callen's head above water but letting his body float in the stream's gentle current. Though the water wasn't overly cold, it probably felt that way to Callen's overheated body and the injured man squirmed, forcing Sam to tighten his grip.
At one point, Callen started convulsing and Sam had to adjust his hold so as not to let Callen's face slip under the surface. As he repositioned his hands, he accidentally pressed on Callen's broken ribs and the man screamed out in his delirium.
In Callen's mind, he was lost in an old memory from when he was a small boy. He'd been about eight at the time and had already cycled through a number of foster homes. His current home was a particularly strict one and Callen the boy had struggled to learn the rules and avoid being punished. The man of the household had a quick temper which could be triggered by the most inconsequential of things. The wife, afraid of her husband, never interfered when he was disciplining the foster children. How the state had ever found them to be suitable as foster parents was a mystery, though many such homes like theirs managed to slip through the cracks and get into the system. Some people wanted the meager money the state paid to foster a child and they lied thru their teeth to qualify as a good home.
Callen remembered he had been walking home from school that day along the river. He used to enjoy watching the stream; it was one of the few pleasures he had in this home. When he'd seen the group of older boys ahead, he had started to turn away, trying to escape unnoticed because he knew what would happen If he couldn't. However, he had not been successful and he had soon been surrounded by the six older boys.
The verbal abuse had started first with hateful words that he had heard all his short life. Even though he was only eight, he had already learned the art of letting the words slide off him, at least in public. When words hadn't brought the desired results the bullies were looking for, they had turned physical, knocking him to the ground, beating and kicking him. Finally, they had shoved him down a muddy slope towards the river. By the time he had reached the bottom, he was covered in mud and sand. The ruffian's final act had been to grab him by his arms and legs, swing him between them like a hammock rocking in the breeze and fling him into the river.
Luckily, he had been taught how to swim at an early age so he was in no danger of drowning. However, his ordeal had left him dazed and he had fumbled about as he climbed out the far side of the river. The bullies, tired of their sport, had wandered away leaving Callen, bedraggled and muddy siting on the side of the stream. The water streaming down his summer bleached blond hair had mixed with the silent tears that were rolling down his face.
Eventually, when he had stood up, he had gasped when a terrible pain radiated from his ribcage. He didn't know it at the time, but he had experienced his first broken rib. Moving carefully, trying to avoid the excruciating pain, Callen had made his way home.
His foster father had a bad day at work and was in a foul mood by the time he arrived home. His wife had sensed his anger and was doing her best to appease him while at the same time staying out of his way. He had demanded to know where the boy was and when his wife said he was late returning from school, that only fueled his anger. They had been warned by the social worker that this particular eight-year old could be hard to handle. He had made up his mind to teach the boy a lesson about tardiness when he finally showed up.
Twenty minutes later when Callen had come sloshing into the yard, his foster father had been waiting for him. Not only was the boy late, but his clothes were ripped and he had been covered in dirt and mud which had further incised the father. He'd grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him into the back yard. Callen had let out a small yelp when his ribs protested the mistreatment of being hauled around which earned him a backhand to the mouth and a lecture on being a man.
Callen had stood where he was told, shivering in a combination of fear and cold as the foster father had dragged out the garden hose. The man had accused him of being an inconsiderate, slovenly, pig and had turned the hose on him full force. Callen had stood there first in shock and then in resignation, knowing if he tried to run, the punishment when he got caught would be twice as bad; life had already taught him that lesson. He had meekly stood there and allowed himself to be hosed down, embarrassed but striping down to his underwear when told to do so by his hose wielding foster father.
At one point the cold, harsh stream of water hit his broken ribs square-on and Callen had screamed. The furious man had swung the nozzle of the hose at the boy which caught him square in the chest, knocking the unsuspecting boy to the grass. His foster father had called him all sorts of names and hit him repetitively with the hose before he demanded the boy stand up and behave like a man. Callen had done his best to comply even as tears were streaming down his face, but like the first time, they were undetectable as they mixed with the rest of the water.
The hosing had begun again and Callen had tried to bite down on his lip to stop his betraying voice from ringing out, even when the pain was overwhelming but he wasn't successful and he had cried out again in pain. He had begged and pleaded with the man to stop but his foster father had continued until he was satisfied the lesson had been learned.
Back in the present, when Sam accidentally pressed on Callen's broken ribs, the man, lost in the past had started whimpering and crying. "Please, please don't hit me with the hose," he simpered. "I didn't mean it."
Startled by the outburst, Sam looked down at Callen's face which was twisted with terror.
"I didn't get dirty on purpose Sir. The older boys attacked me, threw me in the river. I'm only eight. I tried to fight them off but there were six of them. I tried my best. I really did!" Callen's eyes flew open and he wildly looked about. "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me," he blubbered. "I know I'm wrong. I'm stupid. I'm trash."
Sam was horrified by what was coming out of Callen's mouth. Was this a true memory? Had someone really treated him this cruelly when he was only eight years old?
"Please, please don't hurt me anymore," he repeated. "I'll stand here. I'll be good. Just don't hit me."
Not knowing what to do to break Callen out of this fever memory, he simply did the only thing he could, hold the man close and tried to reassure him with words. "No one's gonna hit you anymore. I'll protect you."
"I'm not crying because of what you are doing to me Sir. I'm crying because my side hurts. But I'll stop now." Callen have a big sniff and raised his good hand and wiped it across his closed eyes. "See. I have stopped. I'm not crying. I'm trying to be a good boy. I am. It's just so hard," Callen's whimpered, his voice trailing off.
Sam stroked his wet, brown hair. "I know you are trying. You're doing your best. You are a good boy."
"No I'm not," Callen said vehemently. "If I was a good boy my parents would have loved me, kept me, and not left me in an orphanage. They didn't want me. No one does." With those final words, Callen sunk back into a deeper level of senselessness and stopped struggling.
After that they sat quietly, Callen unconsciousness and Sam wrestling with the terrible story he had just heard; it had disturbed him on many levels. Sam wasn't innocent; he knew terrible things happened in the world, that people were capable of horrible acts of cruelty. But it was one thing to know they happened, but totally another to know it happened to someone he considered a brother.
Callen occasionally made off-hand remarks about his childhood and Sam knew it had been a harsh one with more bad than good. But the man never really shared anything about his past except when he was caught off-guard, like when he'd been looking at old photos of his boyhood days and had distractedly told Deeks and Kensi he'd been beaten with a broom handle. He confessed to them it had gotten him kicked out of that home because he had turned the tables on the beater and gave him a taste of his own medicine. Occasionally, the agent also shared a story when he was interrogating a suspect, trying to get them to open up. But in those moments, Sam was never sure how much was real and how much was Callen fabricating a lie; Callen never said and out of respect Sam never asked. If the few hints about his childhood that Callen had shared were true, Sam thought it was miraculous that the man who was his partner and best friend wasn't more screwed up. Callen had his faults and idiosyncrasies, things that ran counter to Sam whose morals and ideas which were formed by a strong mother and the SEAL program. However, the bottom line was Callen was a good man, loyal to a fault to his country and the few people he called friends. Sam was proud and honored to be both his partner and a friend.
Placing a hand on Callen's head, he slid it down to his forehand and noted that the man seemed cooler. Perhaps the fever had finally broken. Standing up and using the waning light of the moon, Sam carried Callen back to the fire and laid him on the blanket. The one thing that wasn't in the magical satchel was a towel, so Sam used his own shirt to carefully dry Callen, leaving his back alone, before his dressed the man. He was glad Callen didn't wake during the process because he knew his friend would be embarrassed. When he had been in the hospital recovering from the horrific shooting that nearly ended his life, Callen had driven the nursing staff to distraction with trying to do everything on his own. At times it had taken a combination of drugs, restraints, Hetty and Sam to get him to cooperate and behave.
After wrapping Callen in the blanket and adding a few pieces of wood to the fire, Sam laid his own weary body on the ground and let sleep overtake him. Tomorrow would be another long day.