“See? This isn’t so bad.”

I grinned reluctantly, shifting my gaze to his, and he tightened his grip on me. “How’s your nose?” I asked.

He peeled back the tissues and checked it. “What did I tell you? Nothing to worry about. Just a bloody nose.”

I didn’t know how to tell him I thought he was wrong.

Tyler talked in his sleep.

Like talk-talked. In full, coherent sentences.

Of course everything he said was out of context and made no sense, but it was more amusing than any late-night talk show or infomercial on TV.

He talked about washing his car, something about “wrong soap” and “scratching the paint.” And later there was muttering about a dog. Whose dog, I didn’t know. He just said, “You can’t bring that dog in here.” He must’ve been serious about it, because he repeated it more than once, each time more forcefully than before.

I bit back my laughter, not wanting to wake him, until he said the one thing that made me freeze. Just a single word, but it sent shivers racing up my spine.

“Kyra.”

I stayed where I was, wanting desperately—so damned desperately—for him to say my name again. I probably would’ve waited all night, except that was about the time he started to shiver. The same way I had shivered after we’d climbed out of the river. I forgot all about my name on his lips and slipped back into Florence Nightingale mode, jumping up from where I’d been lying next to him, and pressed my hand against the side of his cheek.

If I’d thought he’d been burning up before, he was downright sizzling now.

Panic overrode logic, and I tried shaking him awake. “Tyler. Wake up. Your fever . . . it’s worse.”

He mumbled something less coherent than his dream babbling had been, something I couldn’t make out, and I shook him again. “Wake up,” I demanded, getting right in his face now. “I need you to wake up!”

When he didn’t respond, I went to the bathroom and ran a washcloth under cold water. I brought it back and laid it across his forehead. I wouldn’t have been surprised if steam had risen from the compress. It didn’t, but it also didn’t rouse him.

“Dammit.”

I grabbed the key and the ice bucket, not bothering with pants, and hurried out of the room.

When I came back, he was in the exact same state as when I’d left him: burning up and delirious. He responded, at least, to the ice.

“What the hell!” He shoved at me lethargically. “Stop. I’m fine.” His “I’m fine,” however, was less than convincing, and I was stronger than he was in his fevered state.

“Here . . . ,” I said, my voice gentler as I wrapped the cubes in the washcloth and pressed them against his neck.

With the ice buffered by the cloth, he stopped thrashing against me and let me leave it. When the ice melted, I replaced it.

But I needed to do more.

“I’ll be back,” I whispered against his ear, and felt the heat coming off him in rippling waves.

The lady who staffed the office for the overnight shift was nice enough, if a little hard of hearing. Apparently they sold T-shirts but not Tylenol. Go figure. She didn’t “believe in the stuff,” she explained, so she couldn’t help me out.

I did my best not to roll my eyes, but it took every ounce of self-control to stop myself. Who didn’t believe in Tylenol?

She did, however, point out that there was an all-night gas station just “down the way a bit,” and she aimed a crooked finger indecisively. I assumed she knew by then I was on foot since there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, so I started jogging in the direction she’d indicated.

She was right. It didn’t take long to find the small, four-pump station, which was good since by the time I got there my not-yet-dry jeans were starting to chafe. Also because I was out of my mind with worry over Tyler.

The station was open but deserted at this hour. And it wasn’t the convenience store kind of place that had aisles of snack foods and miscellaneous household supplies and motor oil and beer. Instead, there was one lone attendant’s stand in a center island that overlooked all four gas pumps. Behind the glass there was a limited assortment of sundries: cigarettes, condoms, cough drops—that sort of thing. I could see the display rack of individual packets of pain relievers sitting plain as day on the back counter.

Problem was, the attendant was nowhere to be seen.

If I’d wanted breath spray or condoms, I’d have been in luck. I could have busted out the BACK IN FIVE sign that blocked the small opening where people passed their cash and made a run for it. No such luck.

“Hello?” I called out, hoping that the cashier was right around the corner, maybe taking a smoke break or something; and when no one answered, I tried again, louder this time. “Hello!”

I paced nervously, chewing on my lip and then on my fingernail, trying to decide what I should do.

I didn’t want to go back empty-handed. Tyler needed this medicine.

I went to the glass and pressed my face against it. It was right there. Right in front of me. If I had the balls—or the ovaries, in my case—I’d break the damn glass. I was already on the run from the law, wasn’t I? How much worse could my situation get?

Just one packet of Tylenol or Excedrin or ibuprofen. I wasn’t choosy.

I pounded my fists helplessly against the glass because I knew I’d never do it, even if it had been right where the breath spray was. I wasn’t a thief.