Golden Osmanthus, Red Persimmons

The first thing Graham Vale did after I dragged him out of the supply tent was grab my wrist and tell me not to let anyone call his family. Rain hammered the roof of the flood-relief camp. I could barely hear him over the generator, but his fingers were cold and his eyes had gone glassy. A red welt climbed the side of his neck. His breathing came in short, shallow pulls. "Your throat's swelling," I said. "You need to stop talking." He tried to smile. It looked more like a grimace. I had been sorting donated water when I saw him stagger out of the tent. He wore the blue field jacket of the Vale Foundation, the group that had supplied half our camp and, judging by the branded trucks, most of the county's good will. He was usually surrounded by people with clipboards. Now he was alone, bent at the waist, trying not to fall. I got one arm around him and yelled for help. The camp nurse, Lena Ortiz, ran over with her medical kit. Between us, we got him onto a cot. His skin had turned damp and pale. I could smell something bitter on his breath, sharp as crushed leaves. "What did you take?" Lena asked. "Nothing." "Drink anything?" He blinked at her, then at me. "A bottle from the kitchen." I knew the bottles. We'd been sorting water donations all afternoon. I had noticed a stack of unlabeled sports drinks at the back of the kitchen tent, but the camp manager had said the Vale crew brought them in. I had assumed they were safe. Lena checked his pulse. "Nora, get the poison-control number from the command trailer. Now." I sprinted through the rain. When I returned, Lena was already on the phone, giving the symptoms and reading the label from a crumpled bottle. One of the volunteers had found the bottle near the sink. I couldn't see a label, just a strip of white tape with a handwritten lot number. Graham had stopped shivering. That scared me more than the shaking. Lena stayed on the line, repeating the instructions. I held the flashlight while she checked his airway. His breathing was ragged, and his lips had begun to take on a faint bluish cast. "Keep him sitting forward," she said. "Don't let him lie flat." I braced myself behind his shoulders. He leaned into me, heavy and fever-hot now, and tried to push me away. "You're going to make it worse," I said. "Don't want you blamed." "For what?" He shook his head. His words were slurring. "My family." I didn't know what he meant, and I didn't have time to ask. I held him upright while Lena followed the instructions from poison control. The camp ambulance was out on a supply run. The nearest hospital was across a flooded bridge. A county rescue team was working on a route through the back road, but nobody could tell us how long it would take. So we did the next thing. We kept him breathing. We kept him talking when he could manage it. I told him to look at the red tent seam above my shoulder. I counted slowly while Lena listened to his lungs. "Tell me something," he rasped. "Like what?" "Anything." I was tired, cold, and scared. "The kitchen has a crate of bruised peaches nobody's claimed. I'm going to make sure they don't get thrown out." His eyes flicked toward me. "That's what you want to talk about?" "Would you prefer I list your symptoms?" "No." "Then stay awake." He made a sound that might have been a laugh, though it turned into a cough. I kept my hands on his shoulders. I could feel the tension in him easing and tightening with every breath. After a long wait, the rescue team reached us. They carried him to the ambulance while Lena went with him. I climbed in, too, because I had been the one who saw him drink the bottle and knew what had been in the kitchen tent. The ride to the hospital took nearly an hour. Graham's breathing steadied before we arrived. Lena said the timing mattered, that the treatment had worked, that his airway was still open. I listened to her because I needed something to hold on to. At the hospital, the staff took him through double doors. Someone asked me for my name and number. I gave both, then sat down beneath a wall clock that had stopped at 2:14. At 3:06, a man in a dark coat came down the hall, soaked through and carrying a phone. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not a flooded county hospital. "Are you Nora Ellis?" he asked. "Yes." "I'm his brother, Daniel." I stood up. "Is Graham all right?" "They're treating him. He's stable." The relief made my knees weak. I sat back down. Daniel studied me for a beat. "You were with him at the camp?" "Yes." "Thank you." His gratitude sounded sincere. His eyes did not leave my face. I knew that look. People used it when they were deciding whether I had done something for love, money, or the kind of favor that would come due later. "I was there," I said. "I understand." I didn't think he did. But I had no strength left to argue.