He stirred before the sun rose, soaked in sweat and breathing hard. His fever had broken. His skin wasn't clammy anymore but just flushed and tired.
He looked rough, but at least not dying.
Iyisha sat against the wall, arms crossed, watching quietly. She hadn't moved all night except to check his bandage once.
"You could've robbed me."
She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't."
"Maybe I should've," he muttered.
Gratitude wasn't something she expected from men like him. She just sighed.
He struggled to sit up, groaning as he rubbed his face. The wound still slowed him, but he was mobile. Just barely.
"You promised to take me to Halstead," she said, calm.
His brow pulled together. "I did?"
"You said it before you passed out."
"I say a lot of shit when I'm dying."
"You can't take that back."
He reached for his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "You can't be this naive if you expect me to hold on to that."
He stood slowly, tested his leg. She watched the grimace flicker across his face.
He limped toward the door without looking back.
"You helped me. You got what you needed. Don't follow me."
Iyisha didn't move.
"If you don't have medicine and that wound gets worse again, you'll die," she said, voice even. "People die from simple, unchecked wounds now. Infection doesn't care if you can swing a knife."
He paused in the doorway.
Turned slightly.
And looked at her eyes narrowing, jaw tight. Not just suspicion now. He was deciding. Calculating. Weighing whether she was a risk worth taking or the only chance he had at not bleeding out alone.
She held his gaze without flinching even with her breath held.
"You know how to stay quiet?"
She nodded.
"Then move. But you slow me down once, I leave you."
"Deal."
She added, voice lower but firm, "And we're not walking far. That leg needs rest or you'll tear it open again, then you'll end up crawling."
He sighed and sat back down, rubbing his face. "We can't stay put. This area's too exposed and infested—"
"Then we find a way to move that doesn't involve you walking," she said quickly. "A wheelbarrow, a cart, anything."
He looked at her then, eyes scanning her from head to toe. There was something almost amused in them. "You planning to push me in a wheelbarrow?"
She straightened. "If I have to. Even doctors are trained in Halstead. We do what we have to."
Truthfully, she'd trained more for running and hiding than pushing grown men around in carts but if it meant keeping him alive long enough to get where they needed to go, she'd manage. Barely. But she'd manage.
He chuckled at her response, low and brief.
She caught it. Her spine stiffened, but she didn't rise to it. Instead, she stood, walked over to the corner, and grabbed what she'd made earlier—a makeshift crutch from broken chair legs and cloth.
"Here," she said, offering it. "Don't put weight on your left leg. Keep your posture forward. Let the stick carry your weight, not your hip."
He took it reluctantly, looking at it like it offended his pride.
"If you want it to heal faster, use it," she said flatly.
He grumbled, "It'll be too loud on concrete."
She watched as he pulled out a strip of rubber that looked like a cut piece from an old tire and wrapped it around the bottom of the stick.
"There," he muttered.
She nodded. "I'll go out and find a cart. Or something."
He looked up at her again, more serious this time. "Can you do it?"
She hesitated. That question had looped through her mind a thousand times last night.
She was scared. Of course she was. But if she wanted him alive and she definitely needed him alive then she had to.
She hadn't forgotten how close he'd come to dying. Or the way his breathing sounded at midnight — shallow and fading.
"I can," she said. "You'll be a liability if you come," she added with a dry smile.
His eyes narrowed a little, but he didn't say anything.
He shifted slightly, leaning back on his palms, eyes squinting toward the window. His muscles flexed with the motion.
She hated how that sight tugged at something low in her stomach. He looked damn good for someone half-dead hours ago.
"It's your funeral," he muttered. "But if you're not back in two hours, I'm walking out that door with or without you."
She tilted her head. "What's your name?"
He paused, then said, "Malcolm."
She gave a small nod. "I'll be back before two hours is up, Malcolm."
Then slipped out the door before he could respond, every muscle already bracing for what was waiting on the street.
She adjusted her grip on the knife in her boot. Two hours. Just two. Don't die in two.