Ignited

by Lily Cahill

  “Ivan’s right.” Everyone turned to look at Cora, who stared into one of the barrels, watching the fire dance. A frown was painted across her pretty face. “No matter how we act, we’re not going to appease everyone.”

  “Well, then what should we do?” Frank’s voice came out like a whine.

  “I don’t know.” Clayton ran a hand through his hair and heaved out a sigh. “I wish I did.”

  The silence hung heavy over all of them, like a physical weight. Everyone stood, shoulders hunched to their ears, waiting for someone to have a good idea.

  “Maybe we just leave,” Meg said. Her tone was bitter, and she glared at her feet before looking up, addressing the crowd. “They’re not going to forgive us, or forget what’s happened.”

  “Who’s to say they’ll even let us go?” Kent asked.

  Blanche hugged herself around her swollen middle. “And not all of us can just leave. I have a husband, a baby on the way—I need to think of them.”

  “We can’t leave,” Ruth said, piping up without meaning to. Every eye turned to look at her, and she wanted to shrink under their gazes, but she forced herself to stand tall.

  These powers are a gift, she repeated, needing the reminder.

  “If we run away from here, we’re only going to have the same problems elsewhere. The only difference is, we won’t have each other to lean on.” She frowned. “Believe me, it’s much harder to be alone than it is to work as a team.”

  June found her tongue first. There was a touch of a smile on her face. “Then what do you suggest, Ruth?”

  Ruth shrugged. “Kill them with kindness? Give them no reason to complain about us. Some will, anyway, but if we’re consistently nice, we’ll blend into the background. People will stop caring.”

  Matt Harris grinned. “That’s a mighty nice thought, but do you think it will actually work?”

  “What other choice do we have?” she asked.

  No one had an answer for that.

  “Right. We all need to be on our best behavior from now on. Make sure everyone knows, even those of us who don’t come to the meeting. Be nice, keep a low profile.” Clayton shrugged. “And hope for the best.”

  The meeting broke up quickly after that, and Ruth walked home feeling less excited than she had on her journey there. She slipped inside of Henry’s home and came up the stairs quietly, trying not to rouse him as she got into bed beside him.

  She had no such luck.

  “Good meeting?” he asked, blinking heavy eyelids.

  Ruth kissed his cheek. “Sort of. Go back to sleep, okay?”

  He nodded and was out like a light a moment later. She was awake for a few more hours, however, before she finally passed out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Henry

  Henry couldn’t remember falling asleep. One minute, he’d heard Ruth come in from her meeting at the mine, the next he was being jolted awake by a pounding noise.

  Beside him, Ruth stirred. Her voice was slurred with sleep as she cuddled close to him. “Henry? What’s happening?”

  He tried to pull away, and she whined. It made his heart clench. Even teasing, he could hardly stand the thought of causing her any discomfort. He kissed her hair and untangled himself from her grasping limbs. “I think someone’s at the door.”

  This seemed to make Ruth more aware. She reached blindly for the clock by his bed, squinting at it in the dim light. “It’s only six o’clock.”

  Henry blinked in surprise. “What time did you get back?”

  “I’m not sure. I was too worn out to care,” Ruth laughed, trailing a hand up his torso. Her skin began to faintly glow against his, and he felt the heat begin to seep into his skin. It made him shudder. He nearly leaned down to kiss her, damn their early morning visitor, but the insistent knocking began again, and he sighed.

  “I should probably get that,” he said. Sitting up, he scooted off the bed and onto his feet. He stepped into yesterday’s trousers and quickly grabbed a plain white T-shirt out of his dresser drawer, yanking it over his head as he went.

  The knocking started again before he’d made it down even a few steps. “I’m coming!” he called, hoping whoever was out there wasn’t waking the neighbors.

  He peeked through the peephole, surprised to see Patrice. Any remaining grogginess fled and cold fear dripped into his stomach. What could Patrice possibly want so early? No good news came pounding on the door at six in the morning. Unlocking the door, he flung it open.

  Henry didn’t have a moment to say anything before Patrice blurted, “Dr. Porter, you have to come now! It’s your grandfather—I can’t wake him!”

  Henry’s insides turned to ice. He couldn’t have heard her right. “What?”

  She surged forward and wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Come on, we have to go!”

  Henry ran at full speed next to Patrice. He’d barely had the presence of mind to find his shoes let alone call out to Ruth that he was leaving before he’d flown out the door with his medical bag in his grip.

  The walk to work usually took ten minutes; at the speed they were going, Henry and Patrice halved that time.

  “I went in early,” she said between big, gasping breaths. “To check inventory. The new supply guy forgot the bandages last week, and I wanted to make sure we had everything set up for this week’s order.”

  “And Granddad was downstairs?”

  “No, but I …,” Patrice heaved in another big breath. “I know he’s an early riser. Up with the sun. I thought I’d say good morning. I found him in his room.”

  The building was finally in view. Henry’s heart kicked over in his chest at the fear of what he might find inside, and his strides lengthened. He sprinted the last few yards, leaving Patrice behind.

  “Hurry!” she called out after him.

  Patrice had left the front door hanging wide open, but Henry couldn’t find it within himself to care. He burst through the threshold, running through the waiting room and down the narrow hallway.

  He was in his bedroom, she had said.

  The door leading upstairs to his grandfather’s personal apartment was standing open, and Henry flung himself through it. He took the stairs two at a time and rushed to Dr. Pinkerton’s room.

  His grandfather was collapsed on his side, a pile of haphazard limbs on the floor. He was only steps from the bed, one of his tartan slippers still dangling from his foot. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slack. He did not look asleep. Henry skidded to a halt, dropping to his knees and grabbing for Dr. Pinkerton’s wrist.

  There were footsteps behind him, and then Patrice was in the doorway.

  “His pulse is weak and thready,” he said. He lifted up an eyelid, but his grandfather’s bright blue eyes, the ones he himself had inherited, were rolled back into his head. His forehead was clammy and feverish. “I think he’s had some sort of heart attack.”

  Henry reached into his medical bag and grabbed the bottle of aspirin. He chewed the tablet first, taking precaution to make sure his grandfather didn’t choke on the medicine, before spitting out the pieces into his hand and slipping the mush into his grandfather’s mouth. It was inelegant, but there was a chance it would save his life.

  Patrice came up behind him, crouched at his grandfather’s feet. “I’ll help you move him to his bed,” she said.

  “No, don’t. If his heart stops, I’ll need to start chest compressions.” The sentence came out of him so naturally, but as he thought of it, his blood quickened with fear. “Can you try and call the hospital?”

  “No dial tone. I tried before I ran to get you.” Patrice went silent under Henry’s glare and ran out the door. She reappeared a moment later, frowning. “Nothing up here, either.”

  “Just—do you have a car?”

  Patrice nodded.

  “Can we take it to the hospital?”

  She opened her mouth to speak just as Dr. Pinkerton’s eyes fluttered open and shut—a brief flash of blue and then nothing once ag
ain.

  Patrice hesitated one second. “It’s an hour drive to the nearest hospital, at least.”

  He stared up at her. “Please, Patrice.”

  She turned and went running out the door without another word.

  “Granddad?” Henry lifted his grandfather’s hand, feeling for a pulse. It was a hand Henry knew well; it was a hand that had ruffled his hair and shown him the correct way to hold a baseball bat. Now, it felt weak and small within his grasp. That only made Henry hold tighter. “Don’t strain too much, but can you hear me?”

  There was a weak nod and a small moan. “Yes,” Dr. Pinkerton croaked. “Henry ….”

  “I’m here, Granddad. Patrice just went to get her car so we can take you to the hospital.”

  His grandfather said nothing, swallowing weakly. Henry pulled his stethoscope out of his bag and pressed it to his grandfather’s chest. The jumpy, labored rhythm he heard there sent a spear of worry through him. “Can you take a deep breath?” Henry asked, moving the scope around to the old man’s back. Why hadn’t he noticed how thin his grandfather had gotten?

  Dr. Pinkerton’s breath rattled in his chest, and Henry’s worry amped up to panic. “I’m going to straighten your legs and turn you on your back,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and professional. He was a doctor, dammit. He couldn’t give in to the howling fear inside him.

  His grandfather managed to turn onto his back, but that just made it obvious how gray his skin had gone. “That’s better, huh? And we’re headed to the hospital right away. We’re going to have to break all sorts of laws to get you there on time. Guess Mom was right … I should have gotten a car.”

  Dr. Pinkerton’s hand fluttered weakly on his chest, and Henry took it.

  “Don’t try to talk.” Tears pricked Henry’s eyes. He brushed his grandfather’s hair away from his sweaty brow. “Don’t push yourself. It’s fine. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The hand in Henry’s suddenly tightened so much that the grip was nearly painful. Henry’s gaze moved to his grandfather’s face, feeling hopeful—surely a show of strength was a good sign! Dr. Pinkerton stared back, suddenly more lucid.

  “Henry, listen to me.”

  Henry nodded. “I am.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have agreed. If they—if they ask, don’t agree. Promise me.”

  The words were total nonsense. A tear managed to escape Henry’s eye, but he didn’t move to wipe it. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of his grandfather’s hand.

  “Promise me,” Dr. Pinkerton said again, harried and frantic.

  Henry quickly nodded. “I promise, Granddad. Of course I promise.” The words barely made it out of his mouth; the lump in Henry’s throat was large and aching. He tried to clear it away, but it remained there, stubborn. “You don’t need to worry, though. We’re going to get you to the hospital, and everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  His grandfather’s grip went more and more lax as Henry continued talking.

  “You’ll have to actually listen to the doctors when we get there. They won’t let you get away with everything the way I do. And once you’re well, you’re going to go on a long vacation. I can’t remember the last time you took one, if you ever did. Maybe Ruth and I can go with you. Granddad?”

  Silence.

  “Granddad?” Henry’s voice broke over the syllables.

  Dr. Pinkerton’s eyes were shut. “No, no, no,” Henry mumbled, and balanced on his knees to do chest compressions. The words became a drumbeat in his mind as he pressed and pressed, his own breath becoming labored. Every time he glanced at his grandfather’s slack face, he hoped to see a cough, a sputter, a blink, anything to indicate life. There was nothing. No miracle flex of muscle under his pumping hands.

  He stopped and pressed an ear to his grandfather’s chest. The cavernous silence there echoed the chasm of grief spreading through Henry’s heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Henry

  Patrice burst through the bedroom door a few minutes later, huffing and puffing and with Ruth on her tail. Patrice saw Henry on the floor, clutching his grandfather’s hand, and burst into tears. Ruth moved around her and dropped to her knees beside Henry.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Henry,” she said, speaking the words into his skin.

  He didn’t let go of Dr. Pinkerton’s hand. It was still warm. His thoughts felt distant as he ran through the processes the body experienced after death. Brain activity ended within ten minutes after the heart stopped beating. Deprived of oxygen, his organs would soon begin to decay. His body temperature would drop. Rigor mortis would set in.

  But for now, his grandfather’s skin was still warm in his hand.

  “I’ll go for Mr. Davis,” Patrice said, hiccuping a bit.

  Geoffrey Davis was the town mortician. Why was she going to get him now? His grandfather was still warm.

  Patrice didn’t notice his upset. “He’ll take care of everything, Henry. Ruth, why don’t you get Henry downstairs—”

  “No,” he said.

  Patrice scrubbed at her face. “It’ll be easier if you go downstairs ….”

  “Not yet.”

  Ruth ran a hand down his back, and he took a deep breath, taking comfort in her steady touch. The thoughts running through his mind were jumbled and distant, like the sound of a distant avalanche in the mountains during winter. He knew they were there, and that they were terrible, but they still didn’t feel real or immediate.

  “Henry?” Ruth’s voice echoed loud in his head.

  He turned to look at her, blinking slowly. “Yes?”

  Her fingers drifted down his arm until they covered his own where he still held his grandfather’s hand. She just rested them there, not pressuring him to move. He gripped his grandfather’s hand tighter.

  “Patrice is right, you know,” she said. “It’ll probably be easier if you went downstairs.”

  “But I don’t want him to be alone.”

  “Oh, Henry ….” Ruth sniffled, and when he looked up, he was surprised to see she was crying. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  There was suddenly a lump in Henry’s throat, and he couldn’t swallow around it. It ached and made his eyes burn. Slowly, carefully, he placed his grandfather’s hand on the floor and got to his feet. Ruth followed, tears still streaming from her eyes.

  Death made Dr. Pinkerton look tiny. His eyes were closed, and there was no pain in his expression—that, at least, was a relief.

  Someone would have to tell his mother.

  She wouldn’t take it well, but Henry couldn’t think about that right now. His mother could grieve in her own way, and he would his. Dr. Reginald Pinkerton had been the only thing holding them together for the longest time. They were nothing to each other now.

  And the man who had loved and raised them both was gone.

  On his left, Ruth moved in close. Her hand found his and squeezed tightly. It helped his brain to clear: He wasn’t alone. He still had a family because he still had Ruth.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  Her head rested against his upper arm. “I saw Patrice heading back down the street to her house and knew I needed to be here, with you.”

  On the floor below, there was the distant sound of the door slamming, feet on the stairs. He could hear Geoff Davis and Patrice murmuring back and forth as they got closer.

  “Are you ready?” Ruth asked, little more than a whisper.

  “No.” Henry tightened his hold on her hand, drank in the comfort of her presence. “And yes.”

  The morning passed by in a blur. Captain Barton stopped by to take his statement, staring unsympathetically as Henry stumbled his way through his version of events. At some point, Mrs. McClure arrived, her makeup smeared with tears as she flung her arms around Henry’s middle and sobbed into his chest.

  At mid-morning, Ivan Sokolov strolled into the waiting room. He�
��d had an appointment, another follow-up. Henry felt his stomach turn. He’d wanted so badly to be involved with the Independents, had been so angry about being kept outside of it.

  He’d wanted so much to be the town doctor, but not like this.

  Ivan paused in the doorway, frowning when he saw the commotion. Ruth slipped away and took him aside, and Henry was grateful. He didn’t think he could tell another person what had happened.

  Word spread quickly, and by the afternoon people were stopping by with condolences. Flowers, cards, three of his grandfather’s oldest patients came bearing casseroles. Ruth intercepted each one, handling them with grace.

  He could never thank her enough for all she had done.

  The well-wishers petered out as the sun began to set. He’d stayed all day, making sure everyone who stopped by for their appointments would be rescheduled over the next days. Ruth had sat by his side the entire day. Even Mrs. McClure had only taken the time to run home to freshen up.

  His mother had not made an appearance.

  The three of them were collapsed in the waiting room, Mrs. McClure at her desk, Henry and Ruth in two of the waiting room chairs. They could have left hours ago, but grief made Henry too exhausted to walk, and Ruth would not leave him.

  “You shouldn’t open tomorrow,” Mrs. McClure said, her sharp voice cutting through the silence. “No one will be angry if you take a few days for yourself.”

  Henry shook his head. “I need something to do. I need to be distracted.” He laughed, and it was bitter to his own ears. “Besides, who else will take care of everyone? I’m the only doctor now.”

  “You have to take care of yourself, too.” Ruth was calm and quiet beside him, the one spot of relief in the entire miserable day. “You’re no good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground.”

  He shrugged. “I know my limits.”

  She bit her lip and studied his face. Whatever she saw there, she nodded. “All right. But if you feel overwhelmed, you have to promise to close up and come home.”