Their arrival caught his attention. He had been dozing, in and out, the blanket giving him a feeling more of security than warmth. The storage room was cool, compared to the rest of the mission, and he felt slightly chilled, something he barely remembered from his near past.
He tried to sit up again, but when he tried to use his left hand to balance, the pain overwhelmed him. He focused on his education, almost forgotten most days. What did chills mean when the temperature was over 80? Infection. Where did he hurt, besides his lungs? Stomach. They probably had defecated in the water before giving it to him to drink.
Suddenly she was there next to him, with plastic bottles of some liquids, but he could not understand what they said when she showed them to him. She pointed at one and thrust her hand away from her mouth. Vomiting. He shook his head. His stomach hurt, but he didn’t want to throw up. He had been throwing up, off and on for several days. No way to tell her that. Her actions confirmed two things; yes, he had dysentery, and she both knew what it was and what to give him to cure it.
She pointed at the other bottle and leaning toward him, touched his chest in a soothing way. Her touch electrified him, but he forced himself to follow her reasoning. She wanted to give him something to soothe his stomach. No, she was higher, his lungs. Something to relieve the congestion. He nodded.
Gently, she lifted his head and cradled him in the crook of her arm. He could feel her breast against his cheek, soft, warm, firm. He opened his mouth as she carefully poured in 0ne, two, three teaspoons of some medicine. It made him cough, and some of what he coughed up was blood, but she rode the coughs with him and had a cloth to catch what came out. Immediately he felt better, although he wasn’t certain it was from the medicine or from the euphoria of her holding him. Maybe both.
She carefully wiped his face off and ran her fingers through his hair, absently caressing him. She seemed to have forgotten him for a while, that he not a small child, but a grown man pressed against her breast. He wondered where she had drifted off to, but did nothing to interrupt her. The feeling was beyond anything he could imagine, and he felt aroused and peaceful at the same time.
Suddenly she came back from whatever dream she had been in and let him go, almost dropping his head.
“Sorry,” she said.
He wondered what the word meant. She had spoken it in a very kindly way, so he didn’t think she was angry. He lay still, closed his eyes, and let the memory of her touch overcome everything else. His hair still tingled, along with some of the rest of him. It was like the afterglow of…
He caught himself. He was not going to think about sex. Not with a woman of the church. Not that the church was special. He simply wasn’t going there.
She had shifted to his other side and now pulled on his hand, feeling his wrist and stretching out his fingers. It didn’t take her long to locate two broken bones, and he almost cried out. She nodded and put her hands in front of his face, one pulling on the other. He knew what it meant. She was going to reset the bones. He pointed at the cloth with his spittle and then his mouth. She nodded, but picked up another cloth, clean, and moist, and placed it between his teeth.
Suddenly, she snapped one of his fingers and he lost consciousness.
Hours later, he awoke. Much of the day had gone, judging from the shadows filling the room. His hand throbbed, as did both feet. He bumped them together, expecting a sharp burst of pain, but instead heard the muffled sound of cloth. His left hand was splinted in two places and wrapped. So must be his feet.
He looked around, wondering where the doctor had gone, and found her. She was leaning against the shelf of coffee, and apparently asleep. He hesitated to wake her; instead, he studied the effect of the light and shadow across her face. If anything, in her sleep she looked more angelic than awake. She must be young, he decided, as her face had no marks, no creases of age. No makeup, the pure face of clean living, no cigarettes, no alcohol.
He thought of his last smoke and drink, in the bar with the soldiers and women, sometime very long ago. The last time someone had blown smoke in his face, he had coughed. And he realized he had long since given up the need for one, not that cigarettes would abound in a religious place. Maybe alcohol, though, didn’t they serve wine at some of their gatherings? He thought so.
He found her looking at him. He hadn’t made any noise, but then neither had she. So, she slept soundlessly and woke soundlessly. Something to remember, if…
No!
He tried to smile, hoped for the best, and said, “Good morning.”
She left, to his disappointment, but returned almost immediately, holding a cup of something warm. He was able to rise up without assistance and sipped it down. Linseed tea, not his favorite. For once, he didn’t feel it was ready to come back up. Maybe he was recovering.
As he rested from the effort, he caught her eyes and pointed at himself. He said his name,
“Stefen.” He repeated it, “Stefen Botezatu,” and pointed at her. "You are?" he asked.
Instead of an answer, she jumped up and left.
