Free Hell's Hollow by Summer Stone Page B

body of an animal I had murdered. Images of diseases attacked my mind, wouldn’t leave me alone. A jay chased a wren through The Hollow. “Leave it alone!” I cried, throwing a twig at it.
    I used a rock to dig a little hole in the ground. I wanted to pick up the chipmunk and put him in it so birds wouldn’t swoop down and feed on its body. But I was afraid to touch it, afraid it would open its eyes and attack me, afraid its dead body would infect me with something horrible. I took off my sweatshirt and used it to pick up the body and place it in the hole. The sweatshirt was too big to fit in with him. So I covered the body with dirt. Then covered the mound with my sweatshirt.
    And then I cried.
     
    I woke up next to the sequoia. My stomach growled. Fog had crept into the forest.
    What had I done wrong? Why had the chipmunk died? When I was little, healing had been second nature. I hadn’t understood yet that I wasn’t supposed to do it, s o I just did. But after Sierra — that was the last time I’d ever healed anyone. I’d been so good, so obedient, ignoring every call to heal. And now — what? I’d lost the ability?
    But something had happened. The chipmunk had revived first. It had seemed happy even, running around. So why had it died?
    I’d disobeyed. I’d risked my health and my sanity. And for what? A dead chipmunk? My skin crawled with shivers. My body ached. Fatigue weighed me down. As my stomach started to hurt, I realized it could be Hantavirus. Chipmunks were carriers. My head felt warm. Mom was going to freak.
    I dragged myself up to the house and stood in the hot shower, scrubbing my body from head to toe, checking for ticks as I went. My head pounded. No cure, Mom’s voice said in my head. Your lungs fill with fluid, fevers, vomiting…
    “Shut up!” I yelled, then sank down to the floor of the shower. “I killed it,” I whispered, remembering how tiny and cute the little thing was.
    After drying off, I went to bed. All these years Mom had been right. My sensitivity was useless and a danger to all involved.
     

 
    Chapter Eight
     
    When Mom got home, I was still in bed, achy and cold.
    “Seraphina? Honey, are you home?” she called.
    “In here,” I said.
    “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” She put her hand to my forehead. I was expecting her to freak and insist on calling a doctor. But she said, “You don’t feel warm.”
    “I don’t?”
    “No. What’s bothering you?”
    “My chest feels tight.” Probably fluid in my lungs. “I’m nauseous.” I’ll probably be puking soon. “I’m freezing.” I was sure it was fever.
    “Have you eaten anything today? Have you just been lying in bed with the window open and the fog drifting in? No wonder you’re cold and nauseous. Come on. I’ll make you some soup. Anything going on you want to talk about?” She pulled back the covers and gave me a hand.
    I wrapped my quilt around myself. I loved how all the little individual pieces of fabric from our family’s history came together to make the giant-sized heart. The quilt always made me feel safe and protected. Dragging it along with me, I moved to the high-backed couch.
    “I was thinking about visiting Gran and MK tonight,” she called from the kitchen, where she was chopping vegetables. “But if you’re not up to it, we could go tomorrow. I’m pretty tired myself.”
    I wondered if Hantavirus was contagious between humans. I went to the desk and opened the laptop, searched Hantavirus contagious. The first site that popped up read Hantavirus is carried by rodent fecal matter and is not contagious through human contact. It has an incubation period ranging from one to five weeks, which means symptoms take some time to appear after initial contact with rodent feces.
    Wait. Weeks for symptoms to appear? Contact with rodent feces? Mom never said anything about it coming from poo. She made it seem like it came from touching the animals themselves. And it hadn’t even been a day