Effie woke and tried to focus through the slits of her fevered eyes. Night, again. The pain in her hand burning as if she clutched red-hot coals.
“Bridget,” she moaned, “my medicine.”
Feeling the laudanum roll down her throat, she closed her eyes and struggled not to cry out again. She’d taken the drug enough times to know it would only take a minute. Less than two.
Caught in fevered loops of time, sleep, and wakefulness, the days and nights wheeled around her without divisions.
The pain in her hand—sharp as it remained—was grinding down. She sucked in air and tears stung her eyes when she rolled and bumped it, but she didn’t cry out as often for laudanum. There were memories of Cora fussing and Chief—not even the Indian leaving her alone to die—and Bridget spooning in bitter broths. A
