picking up Amanda and the girls and Evan. I tell her about yesterdayâs burger. I hope sheâs proud that I didnât eat bird. Never again. Not now that Iâve been touched by the feathers of a goddess.
Time has stopped again. This gorgeous creature has been with me for only a millisecond. No, nine days. No, thirty-two minutes.
chapter 15
Cora
Itâs been six hours since Michael Michaelson was dropped off at my tent. His friends have not come back for him. He sits in a corner now while I tend to other patients. Iâve been keeping my eye on him, though, and it seems to me like his gaze has become just a bit more focused in the past half hour.
The sun is still blazing high in the sky when we all hear it: the very first strains of music. I look at my watch. Itâs a few minutes before five p.m. Quite a few anxious patients informed me that the concert was supposed to start hours ago. I can hear some of them start fidgeting now. When I look up, my eye catches Michaelâs. His face breaks into a grin.
I hand the cup of tea to my latest freak-out patient and walk over to him.
âHow are you doing?â I ask.
He shakes his shaggy blond hair. âOkay. A little . . . groggy. You still look a little . . . odd.â He blushes then, the pink of his skin rooting to his peach fuzz and reminding me even more of the summer fruit.
âI get that a lot,â I joke. I lower my voice conspiratorially. âIt must be because Iâm part Seneca.â
âReally?â Michaelâs eyes get just a little brighter. âWhat part?â
âMy grandmother,â I say, surprised heâs interested.
âAh. Far out,â he responds. âDo you look like her?â
Sometimes, I feel self-conscious about how obviously different I look. When I was younger, Iâd compare my summer tan to my brothersâ and, every now and then, wish mine wasnât quite so much darker. But I donât feel that way when I tell Michael yes, not with the way he beams at me.
We can hear some lyrics now, something about marching to the fields of Korea.
âDo you know who this is?â I ask Michael.
âIâm not sure. I thought Sweetwater was supposed to perform first, but this doesnât sound like them,â he responds.
âItâs Richie Havens,â a blond girl drinking one of my teas offers from a corner of the tent. âI need to get out of here so I can see him.â
I walk over to her with my penlight. âOkay, let me see your eyes,â I say. A little glassy but focusing okay. âYou feel like you can walk?â
âDefinitely,â she says.
âOkay, take it easy.â
âPeace, sister.â She gives me a hug, before taking out a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses from her shirt pocket and reaching the front flap of the tent in six long strides.
âHey,â a voice says softly from behind me. I turn around.
Michael is smiling sheepishly. âThink Iâm okay to go too?â
I shine the light in his eyes, and they turn them an even lighter green, like the peridot in a ring my mother has.
âI think youâre okay,â I say.
âGreat. Thanks. For everything. Sorry I was so messed up.â
âIâve seen worse,â I offer.
He stares at me then for a moment too long and I wonder if heâs maybe not okay to leave.
âOkay,â he finally says. âBye.â
âBye,â I say, and turn around to busy myself. I can always cut more gauze strips.
I go to the bin where theyâre kept and grab the scissors from one of the makeshift shelves.
âUm . . . your name?â comes from somewhere right beside my ear.
I jump, nearly poking myself in the cheek with the scissors. I turn around to see Michael staring at me apologetically again.
âSorry,â he says right away. âOh, man, I feel like âsorryâ has been half of all the words Iâve said to you.â
I laugh.