The captain surveyed John for a moment. “Getting sea sick, are you? We might be able to give you a pill for that but closest hospital is in Nassau, 200 miles away. You won’t be getting there anytime soon if Isabel’s coming this way.”

***

By the time the island taxi pulled up to the beach house at 8:30 p.m. the wind had picked up briskly. John estimated that it was steady at thirty miles per hour, probably gusting at forty even though the driver had said the hurricane wouldn’t arrive until the following night. But he had confirmed that it would arrive, at least according to the hurricane prediction models. Same path as Irene, just as the captain had said, taking it squarely over the length of the Bahamas. Even though he was furious at the weather forecasters who had predicted that the hurricane would most likely steer south of Florida and into the gulf, maybe hitting Florida’s panhandle, John was even more furious at himself. He knew that he should have known better than to go to a remote island without a contingency plan. Everything in his business life revolved around contingency plans. Back-ups, redundant servers and facilities, action plans if revenue didn’t materialize, expansion plans if they did. For the past three hours he had labored under dreadful thoughts. Thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge, but had to. What if the hurricane hits us directly in this little house on the beach. Where do we go? The captain and the taxi driver assured him that they would be fine in their home, which was situated far enough back from the water to avoid any storm surge, but it did little now to assuage his fears.

“You won’t have any power or telephones,” the driver had said, “but you’ll get by. Everyone made it through all right with Irene and that split down the middle of the islands.”

But that wasn’t what was bothering John, aching at his insides. What if Rose was ill or took a turn for the worse? That thought gnawed at him so much he was becoming sick himself. Time was moving so slowly for him, minutes dragging and cursing him with dreadful thoughts that could only be relieved once he saw that she was all right and held her in his arms.

John paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. Wind from the southeast stung his face with grains of sand as he walked up the front steps. As he reached for the doorknob in the darkness he saw a mass lying on the wicker sofa to his left. His heart sank as he went to Rose, partially covered with a blanket, but lying there in the open as the sand pelted her cheeks. “Rose!” John fell to his knees in front of the sofa and picked up her head. “Rose!”

With great strain she opened her eyes, barely, groggily, as if she had taken sleep medication, but John knew she wouldn’t have. He stood and slid his arms underneath her and picked her up, holding her close to him. Rose’s body draped over his arms and offered no resistance, no support. Her arms lay limp by her side in his own arms as he walked to the door, using his body to shield Rose from the wind and sand. Turning the doorknob, John twisted his body to allow Rose’s head to carefully enter the opening first. In a panic his eyes darted around the strange home as he walked straight to the bedroom. Again, he turned sideways as he walked down the narrow hall to protect Rose’s head from hitting the wall. After navigating the doorway into the bedroom, John laid Rose onto the bed. A loud banging came from the living room and John raced back to close the door. He flipped on the light switch and silently thanked an unknown benefactor for the magic of electricity as he rushed back to the bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp.

“Rose!” John said firmly, yet softly. “Rose, can you hear me?”

Again her eyelids opened a sliver and looked at John. Her eyes had the energy to acknowledge him, but nothing else. She was shaking, shivering, her body trembling as if it had just been pulled out of icy waters. John tucked her into bed and pulled blankets tightly around her, pushing them around and behind her shoulders to warm her. He took the back of his hand and felt her forehead. Oh no! John said to himself as he felt the searing heat from Rose’s head. He looked at Rose in the soft glow of the lamp, her sweat-soaked black hair sucking light out of the room. He looked for a clock to check the time. Seeing none, he took out his iPhone and had to wait for it to turn on since he had no reason to keep it on.

“C’MON!” John screamed to the inanimate object. Finally it turned on and revealed the time as 8:40 p.m. His mind raced wildly. I need a doctor. That’s all that matters. Find a phone book, the phone.

John began to rise from the bed, but stopped halfway up in a crouched position. His nostrils had halted his progress as they detected something faint, but a smell that caused him to stop where he was until its source could be identified. He whiffed again, registering the smell and talking himself through the options.

I know that smell...it reminds me of...the girls...something about the girls....diapers!

John pulled the covers back from Rose and gently rolled her on her side. The back of her right leg was stained wet and brown. John looked at his left forearm where he had been carrying her and now saw the wetness on his arm. Obviously Rose had had diarrhea during the day and, evidently, was unable to get up to go inside. “Oh Jesus!” John said. “I’ll clean you up in a moment, hon.” Rose lay there, able to hear nothing.

“First I gotta find the phone!” John began walking to the kitchen with a sinking feeling that no one could help him.

Chapter 25

The sun inched over the mountains as Blake drove south on 441 in Mountain City back toward Clayton. He had just dropped off a bed full of pig bones with Gus, who would make a final batch of bone meal for Blake.

Terry had proven to be a real asset, worth every penny of the five grand that Blake paid him in cash the night before as he thanked him and bid him farewell. Hoping he’d never see him again, Blake had no idea what a kid like that would do with five grand, but he figured it wouldn’t last long. Most importantly to Blake, he paid him in cash and there would be no tracing it to him.

Blake pulled into the Ingles grocery store just before Warwoman Road. A new Starbucks coffee shop had just opened inside and Blake wondered how “fourbucks,” as the penny pinchers at UGA had called it, would do in this neck of the woods. But Blake had taken a liking to the dark roasted coffee during his Athens time and was glad to see the green logo appear a few weeks back. He walked through the door and marveled at the decor. Starbucks had taken something as simple as a cup of coffee and achieved with it what Blake had tried to accomplish with his own life. Elevate the mundane to the exotic, take a dirty seed and turn it into something the world admired. But underneath it all, once you stripped away the musical coffee house genre that they seemed to have invented, the fancy packaging, the curvaceous coffee mugs, once you stripped all that away you were left with what? A lone coffee bean grown by a lone, unknown, and unimportant farmer.

The dirty seed, as Blake now thought of himself, stepped forward to order.

“Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you?”

“Hey, can I have a grande bold with no room?”

“Sure thing,” she said. “Getcha anything else? A blueberry scone perhaps?” she asked with a smile.

“Uh..no ma’am, just the coffee, thanks.”

“Okay, that’ll be two twenty-three.” The clerk turned to get the coffee and returned to the counter. Blake handed her a five and took change, leaving a buck in the tip jar. She smiled and handed him his coffee.