Free Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) by Jessica Keller, Jess Evander Page A

softly and run it near his hairline.
    “Mmm. That feels nice.” He smiles sleepily.
    After helping him into a clean shirt and socks, I fiddle with the jeans I found in his backpack. Heat blasts across my cheeks.
    “Michael?” Why does my voice have to squeak like that?
    “Hmm?” He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t open his eyes.
    “Are you … do you think you’re strong enough to change your pants … without my help?”
    Give me a break. The man deserves his dignity.
    His eyes slide open, just barely, and he chuckles. The welcome sound gives way to a fit of coughing so hard I stand and grasp his shoulders because for some reason I feel like that will help.
    He holds up a hand and sucks in a deep breath. “Go ahead and turn around.”
    I catch the movement of him rising in the mirror that hangs on the wall, so I train my eyes on the ground until he grunts, “All’s clear.”
    When I turn around, he’s already lying on the cot. I balance on the edge and touch my hand to his forehead. Hot. My fingers slide to the side of his face. With effort, Michael lifts a hand to cover mine. We sit there staring at each other for what feels like minutes.
    “You will be okay.” I command him because Michael’s always been good at following rules. If I tell him he has to get better, he’ll try his best.
    “I just need some sleep.” There’s a tender look in his eyes that momentarily robs me of the ability to breathe.
    I finally locate my voice. “How long have you been sick?”
    Breaking eye contact, he focuses on the ceiling above me. “At first, I thought I was tired. But today I realized … it’s more than that.” His eyes drift to the side of the tent, and his hand drops from mine. “I feel worse today. Even worse than an hour ago.” Suddenly his eyes narrow as if he’s thinking hard. “You shouldn’t be near me. I don’t want you to catch something.”
    Considering we spent the night on the same cot, it’s probably too late to worry about sharing germs. “Do you know what it is?”
    “I think so.” He turns in the bed, away from me. “I wasn’t paying attention. I got caught up doing everything else. I’m so stupid.”
    Just answer the question. I want to shake him. “What is it?”
    “I’d forgotten. The Spanish flu kills more people this year than the entire war.”

 

    >Bone-chilling rain beats against the top of the tent and seeps into a puddle near the entryway. Wind cuts through the tarps. They both started an hour ago. Washing away the sound of gunfire. Hopefully some of the smell of war too.
    Each time Michael almost drifts off to sleep, he falls into coughing. His eyes are bloodshot now. I bring him another cup of water, prop him up a bit, and hold it to his cracked lips. Over the course of the day his condition has gone from I need sleep to I don’t know if I’ll ever get better . 
    But this is only the flu, right? As long as I keep him hydrated and he gets some good rest, he’ll be fine. Of course, it is possible to die of the flu. But that danger is reserved for babies, the elderly, and people with compromised immune systems. Not healthy twenty-year-old men.
    No. Michael will be fine. He has to be.
    My hands don’t agree with that assessment. They flutter around Michael. Unable to stop trying to make him better. The lack of any positive progress makes me even more spastic, like a squirrel moving the location of a nut thirty times before winter sets in. I rotate between pressing wet fabric—a make-shift washcloth—to his brow, squeezing his hand, and running my fingers through his hair. Straighten his blanket. Rub his shoulders. Feel for the reassuring pound of his heart.
    Late in the afternoon, he starts tugging at his ear. Mumbling. Then he’s finally still. Raspy breaths, but he sleeps.
    Fatigue causes my legs and arms to wobble. I drop my head into my hands. Food hasn’t been a priority for me since I shifted. More because of how unappealing the offerings looked than for