Read Z for Zachariah for Free Online Page A

afternoon. Then if he still has not come out of the tent I will go down there while it is still light, very quietly, and see if I can see, without getting too close, how he is. I will take my gun with me.

    May 28th

    I am back in the house, in my own room.
    The man is in the tent. He is asleep, most of the time at least, and so sick he cannot get up. He scarcely knows I am here.
    Yesterday afternoon at four o'clock, as I had decided, I took my gun and went down the hill to the house. I came up behind it and walked, slowly and quietly, listening, round to the front. If I had heard any activity I was going to duck back and try to get away again without being seen. When I reached the front garden the dog came rushing up to meet me—I was afraid he was going to bark but he did not, he just sniffed my knee, wagged his tail and watched. I crept to the tent and looked in. It has a flap to close it, but that was hanging loose, partly open. Still it was dark inside. I could see only his legs at first. I crept closer, put my head inside, and my eyes adjusted to the dark. He lay on a sleeping bag, partly covered, his eyes closed, his head in a mess where he had been sick. He was breathing, quite fast and shallow. Beside him lay a water bottle, a green plastic thing, knocked over and spilled; beside that lay a bottle of pills, large white ones, with the top off, also knocked over and partly spilled out.
    The tent roof was only about four feet high. I knelt down and went in, just a little, so that I could reach his hand where it lay on top of the bag. The smell was terrible. I touched his hand: it was dry and hot with fever. Just as I touched it Faro, his nose in the entrance, whined, and at the combination of the noise and the touch he opened his eyes.
    "Edward," he said. "Edward?"
    He was not looking at me, or if he was, he was not seeing me; but I think he was looking at my gun, which I was still holding, because the next thing he said was:
    "Bullets. It won't stop…" He did not finish the sentence, but sighed and closed his eyes again. He was dreaming; he was delirious, and his voice sounded thick, as if his throat and mouth were swollen.
    "You're sick," I said. "You have a fever."
    He moaned, and spoke without opening his eyes again.
    "Water. Please give me water."
    I could see what had happened: before he collapsed he had opened a bottle of water and some pills. In his confusion he had knocked them over. The bottle was empty and he was too weak to get more.
    "All right," I said, "I'll get you some water. It will take a few minutes."
    I got a pail from the kitchen, and ran to the stream where it flowed into the pond, where the water is clearest. When I got back I was hot and out of breath; I had filled it nearly full and it was heavy. I got a cup from the house and dipped it half full.
    He was asleep again, so I touched his shoulder.
    "Here," I said, "drink this."
    He tried to rise but could not, not even on his elbow, and when he tried to take the cup he dropped it. I half filled it again from the pail; this time I held it, and lifted his head a little with my other hand. He gulped it down; he was really thirsty.
    "More," he said.
    "Not now," I said. "It will make you sick again." I did not know much about medicine, but I knew that much. He fell back and went to sleep again instantly.
    The truth is, I did not know enough to take care of him. I had helped my mother sometimes taking care of David or Joseph when they got sick (grippe, chicken-pox, things like that), but never anyone this sick. Still, there was no one else, so I had to try.
    I got a rag from the house and using some of the water I cleaned as well as I could around his head; I got him a fresh pillow and a clean blanket. I put the pills—those that were still clean—back in the bottle, capped it, and looked at the label: Cysteamine , whatever that is. The only medicine I had in the house (and the store) was aspirin and some cold tablets. But how could I know what