CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A powerful and intense smell filled the fetid air within the shack. Heat rising, Ezra threw off his blanket and struggled to his feet. His head pounded and his guts churned. It was as if he’d been drinking and he swayed drunkenly, throwing out his arms to find something to anchor onto. There was nothing and he slid to his knees, nausea rising from the depths of his stomach. “Oh God,” he groaned.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” It was Bourne, coming through the door, arms filled with wood collected from the nearby forest.
“I’m sick. Oh, Jesus.” Ezra staggered forward, pushed Bourne aside and fell outside onto the ground. He writhed there for a moment, struggled to push himself to his hands and knees and then, retching horribly, he emptied his guts onto the dir
