a high-pitched, nasal voice— “‘I can assure you Chief Brown is highly competent and will bring every resource to bear,’ but that’s what she meant.”
“Well then why—”
“Weren’t you listening? She doesn’t want me.” The scorn in Titch’s voice should have withered Art on the spot, but it wasn’t directed at him. “ Nobody wants me. They’d palm me off on some crummy care home. They’d trot me out every time foster parents came ’round, and they’d look at me with these big, sad eyes, then take home some pretty blue-eyed baby who doesn’t have a smart mouth and is still young enough to fix.”
“Oh, Titch,” said Charlie. “You don’t need fixing.”
Charlie knew what it could be like in the system. For older kids – especially kids like Titch who’d developed a spiky protective shell – it didn’t offer many prospects. But what was the alternative?
They were silent for a long moment, then Titch sighed and said, “It’s okay. I know you probably don’t want some stupid kid hanging around and cramping your style either. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” And she started to pick up her stuff.
Art grabbed her arm, gently but firmly. “Ah, but I’ve seen through your cunning disguise, remember? You’re not a kid at all, you’re a wolverine. You’d better stay with us for the time being, for safety.” He grinned. “For the safety of absolutely everyone else in the world, that is. Come on.”
As he got to his feet, his leg buckled and he stumbled and went down to one knee. He quickly regained his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his jeans, hoping Charlie wouldn’t make the connection. But she did.
Chapter Twelve
Charlie dabbed Art’s brow with a damp cloth and wrung it out. He tried, irritably, to knock her hand away, but he was clumsy.
It was frightening how quickly he’d deteriorated. Hard to believe this was the man who’d torn the door off an airplane with his bare hands and carried her to safety. That one telltale stumble had been the start, and now…
He insisted that he didn’t need to lie down, but he was hunched miserably in on himself, shivering. It was only the fact that he still had enough energy to be bad-tempered that kept her hoping. She had to believe there was still a chance to save him. Because if he died, it would be her fault.
Titch was pacing anxiously, and every so often she offered up a suggestion – Tylenol, water, calling the air ambulance, voodoo magic – or a question – Was he any cooler? Was he getting any worse? Was he going to die? If he died, could she have his stuff? After she’d kicked his ass for dying on her, that was. Her eyes never left him, and she all but vibrated with nervous tension.
“He’s going to be okay,” Charlie told her for the umpteenth time. “I won’t be gone for long. Just keep him in the shade and give him plenty of water.”
“He’s not a begonia!” Titch snapped. “He doesn’t need a botanist – he needs a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Art croaked. “I need Starweed.”
“You shouldn’t have burned it then!” Titch seethed. “I’d smack you upside the head, but I don’t want to damage your tiny brain.”
“Titch,” Charlie said finally. “Please sit down – you’re making me dizzy.”
The girl huffed and flumped down next to her. “Why did you let him burn the Starweed?” she asked Charlie. “He told you he needed it.”
“I know,” Charlie said miserably. “It was already on fire when I woke up.” She felt a pang of guilt. That was true, as far as it went, but even though she hadn’t asked him to – had been horrified and angry when she’d seen the bonfire – Art had burned the Starweed to convince her that he was a decent man. As if he hadn’t proved that already with his kindness to Titch; his patience with Charlie.
“I’ll be back,” she told Titch. “I won’t let him die.”
Titch studied her face for a long time, blinking
“Well then why—”
“Weren’t you listening? She doesn’t want me.” The scorn in Titch’s voice should have withered Art on the spot, but it wasn’t directed at him. “ Nobody wants me. They’d palm me off on some crummy care home. They’d trot me out every time foster parents came ’round, and they’d look at me with these big, sad eyes, then take home some pretty blue-eyed baby who doesn’t have a smart mouth and is still young enough to fix.”
“Oh, Titch,” said Charlie. “You don’t need fixing.”
Charlie knew what it could be like in the system. For older kids – especially kids like Titch who’d developed a spiky protective shell – it didn’t offer many prospects. But what was the alternative?
They were silent for a long moment, then Titch sighed and said, “It’s okay. I know you probably don’t want some stupid kid hanging around and cramping your style either. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” And she started to pick up her stuff.
Art grabbed her arm, gently but firmly. “Ah, but I’ve seen through your cunning disguise, remember? You’re not a kid at all, you’re a wolverine. You’d better stay with us for the time being, for safety.” He grinned. “For the safety of absolutely everyone else in the world, that is. Come on.”
As he got to his feet, his leg buckled and he stumbled and went down to one knee. He quickly regained his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his jeans, hoping Charlie wouldn’t make the connection. But she did.
Chapter Twelve
Charlie dabbed Art’s brow with a damp cloth and wrung it out. He tried, irritably, to knock her hand away, but he was clumsy.
It was frightening how quickly he’d deteriorated. Hard to believe this was the man who’d torn the door off an airplane with his bare hands and carried her to safety. That one telltale stumble had been the start, and now…
He insisted that he didn’t need to lie down, but he was hunched miserably in on himself, shivering. It was only the fact that he still had enough energy to be bad-tempered that kept her hoping. She had to believe there was still a chance to save him. Because if he died, it would be her fault.
Titch was pacing anxiously, and every so often she offered up a suggestion – Tylenol, water, calling the air ambulance, voodoo magic – or a question – Was he any cooler? Was he getting any worse? Was he going to die? If he died, could she have his stuff? After she’d kicked his ass for dying on her, that was. Her eyes never left him, and she all but vibrated with nervous tension.
“He’s going to be okay,” Charlie told her for the umpteenth time. “I won’t be gone for long. Just keep him in the shade and give him plenty of water.”
“He’s not a begonia!” Titch snapped. “He doesn’t need a botanist – he needs a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Art croaked. “I need Starweed.”
“You shouldn’t have burned it then!” Titch seethed. “I’d smack you upside the head, but I don’t want to damage your tiny brain.”
“Titch,” Charlie said finally. “Please sit down – you’re making me dizzy.”
The girl huffed and flumped down next to her. “Why did you let him burn the Starweed?” she asked Charlie. “He told you he needed it.”
“I know,” Charlie said miserably. “It was already on fire when I woke up.” She felt a pang of guilt. That was true, as far as it went, but even though she hadn’t asked him to – had been horrified and angry when she’d seen the bonfire – Art had burned the Starweed to convince her that he was a decent man. As if he hadn’t proved that already with his kindness to Titch; his patience with Charlie.
“I’ll be back,” she told Titch. “I won’t let him die.”
Titch studied her face for a long time, blinking
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