Page 108 of Once Upon a Fall

“Taking you to your bed,” I say, laying her gently on top of the unmade bed.

“I feel awful,” she says, as I carefully remove her shoes.

She starts shivering even though her skin is still burning hot. I quickly pull the blankets over her and tuck them around her.

I go to her bathroom to see if I can find medicine or a thermometer. Her drawers and the cabinet under the sink come up empty of anything useful.

Then I remember there’s a first aid kit in the cabinet where all the spices are, so I hurry and grab it.

It has one of those digital thermometers I have no idea how to use, so I Google the directions. When I finally figure it out, I take her temperature twice because the number can’t possibly be right. 103.2 degrees.

A memory of my mom flashes through my mind. I came home sick after my freshman year of college with a fever around the same temperature, and she panicked. She stayed home from work for a few days, brought me medicine and water, and checked my temperature constantly. It’s one of the few memories I have of her hovering over me like that.

I take Rosie’s temperature again. 103.3 now.

Okay. I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Rosie,” I say. She opens her eyes, but her gaze is unfocused. “Do you have anything here for a fever?”

“I . . .” Her eyes drift shut before opening again. “I don’t . . .”

“I think I need to take you to urgent care.”

“No.” The word comes out a little stronger. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” I tell her. “You have a high fever.”

She closes her eyes again, and I stand there for a second trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do. Then I remember her dad is a PA. Someone who’ll actually know what he’s doing.

I find Rosie’s phone in the pocket of her overalls, pull up her dad’s number, and call. It’s nearly midnight, so I hope I don’t alarm him too much.

He answers after two rings.

“Rosie?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“It’s Dean, Mr. Harper,” I say.

“Dean? What’s going on?”

“Rosie has a fever,” I say. “It’s 103.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door of the inn. Rosie’s dad is standing there with a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder, and I let him in before following him back to her room.

“Dad?” Rosie asks as he sits on the edge of the bed, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.

“Hey, Rosebud,” he says.

I stand out of the way as Daryl gets to work.

He grabs the thermometer I used from the side table, takes her temperature again, and then checks her pulse.

“How long have you felt like this?” he asks.

“I’m . . . fine,” she says. “I just need sleep.”

“Is your throat sore? Body aches?”