Iris’s job at a school dance was to watch for student problems. She kicked some girls out of the restroom for smoking, confiscated what looked like a flask from a sixteen-year-old boy, stopped an argument between two boys over a girl and did it all without taking a shot to the face. She lifted her chin and gave Seth a very superior smile.

At around ten, a good two hours before these die-hard kids would give up the dance and leave, Seth made his way to her side. “I had my stitches out. Wanna go out for a drink after the dance?”

“Where?” she asked. “Cliff isn’t open this late, I’m not going to Waylan’s, the beach would be insane in this weather... I did confiscate a flask, but even I’m not that daring.”

“How about your place?” he asked, grinning.

“Nice try,” she said. “Actually, I have a headache.”

“Are you just practicing?” he wanted to know.

“I do have a real headache,” she said. “Blame the weather and the class of 2015. You think your work is dangerous?”

“How about if I call you tomorrow?” he asked.

“I might not be answering the phone tomorrow. I might need a day to myself. I really do have a headache. Right here,” she said, giving her temples a brief massage.

“I could take you home, rub your temples....”

“You’re doing it again,” she said. “Coming on to me. I thought I explained, I don’t really need your bullshit.”

“Which is why I’m being careful not to give you any! Sooner or later you’re going to trust me again!”

“Later,” she said.

Iris was at the high school gym until midnight. She was supposed to be part of the cleanup committee, but she talked Troy into taking that on for her. She bundled up, went home and left her clothes on the floor when she got into her flannels and crawled into bed. At four in the morning she started coughing a little. At six she wheezed and sneezed. At eight o’clock she felt like she had swallowed razor blades so she took Advil and gargled. It went downhill from there.

Nine

Seth called Iris in the early afternoon on Sunday. He got the cell phone number from his mother, officially breaking the rule of not allowing her to be in any way involved in his relationship with his childhood friend. It sent Gwen into a whole series of hopeful flutters. And questions about whether they’d finally been talking again. “Stop,” he said. “I just want to ask her something. Not another word about it.”

Seth called from his mother’s home phone. Of course, her name popped up on Iris’s caller ID.

“Iris,” he said.

“I’m sick,” she croaked out. “Go away.” She hung up.

There was no logic to laughing at that, but he did. God, he’d missed her. She was so feisty.

On Monday he called the high school and asked for Ms. McKinley and was told she wasn’t in. He called her cell phone at about three in the afternoon. “Still sick,” she wheezed. “Flu. Get lost.” And she hung up.

Again, he smiled and just shook his head. He went to the pharmacy section of the grocery store, then to Carrie’s deli. He loaded up on supplies and told Carrie that Iris was sick and he needed chicken soup. Gwen would have been honored and probably a little too excited to make soup for Iris, so he refused to ask her. “I can drive to the deli in Bandon but I’d rather have yours,” he told Carrie.

“Don’t you dare feed any of my people Bandon soup!” she nearly roared. She went to the back of the deli and pulled a yellowish brick wrapped in plastic from the freezer. “Just put this in a pan, add a cup of water and put it on a low flame. Here are some biscuits to go with it. How sick is she?”

“I haven’t seen her yet,” he said. “She attempted to answer her phone a couple of times and it doesn’t sound pretty. Maybe you better get some more soup ready—Pritkus called in sick and said two of his three kids are down.”

“Oh, dear,” Carrie said, turning away from Seth and going to the back again. She returned with another frozen yellowish brick. “Drop this off at the Pritkus house, will you, Seth? Steve’s wife is smart and adorable but there is no worse cook on earth. You can’t get well out of a can of soup. This is the real thing. I’ll get started on a new supply. Sounds like they’re dropping like flies out there.”

“What do I owe you?” he asked.

“Forget about it. Save as many as you can.”

He made a final stop at Pretty Petals and asked for a cheerful bouquet. “For your mother?” Grace asked.

“Not this time,” he said. “Iris has the flu.”

Grace stepped back with a look of fear on her face. He was surprised she didn’t make the sign of the cross. “Tell her I hope she gets better soon and not to come around me until there’s not a germ left in her body. If you’re smart, you’ll leave this on the doorstep.”

“I don’t scare that easily,” he said.

Armed with his supplies, he went to Iris’s house.

Of course she wouldn’t open her door so he called her from his cell phone. “Open up, Iris. I brought you medicine.”

“Go away,” she rasped. She hung up.

Risking prison time, he picked the lock on the back door and let himself in. Even though this was Thunder Point, she definitely needed better locks. Whoa, he thought, looking around. Iris definitely wasn’t sick in a tidy way. The kitchen and dining room were a mess and one peek into the living room exposed a blanket and pillow on the sofa, dirty tissues on the coffee table, floor, side table. There was a small trash can overflowing with tissues and maybe other stuff. And there was a bucket. A bucket? This could be worse than he feared. The TV was on though no one was watching it. The dining room table had dirty bowls, juice glasses, more tissues. And then Iris came out of the bedroom. Make that stormed out of the bedroom with her wild hair and plaid flannel pajamas that were buttoned off-kilter. “What are you doing?” she barked. And then she fell into a coughing fit that really sounded like she might not be long for this world. She had to sit on the couch before she could get under control and tears were running down her cheeks. Her red cheeks.

Part of him felt very bad, putting her through that. Part of him was now convinced he’d done the right thing. She needed him.

She looked up at him from the sofa. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I’m going to get you well,” he said.

“Please,” she begged. “Go away.”

Seth put his bags down on the table and pulled out a box. He opened it and extracted a gizmo. A thermometer. It didn’t look like a regular thermometer with a silver end and mercury inside. “You don’t have a thermometer, do you?” he asked.

“Somewhere,” she said with a careless wave of her arm. “Maybe.”

He approached her cautiously. “Don’t hit. Just look up.” He ran the rubber tip over her forehead. She coughed and wheezed while he tended to her and tried not to breathe her air. “Ew,” he said. “You have a fever.”

“Big shocker,” she said.

“You’re sick.”

“Like I’ve been telling you for two days.”

He leaned closer, listening. “What is that noise? Hear it? Like a motor?”