Chapter 6: Fever Dreams

I started taking care of him.

I force-fed him for two days. On the third day, he finally wanted to live, and when I brought the tray, he immediately picked up the fork.

"You want to eat yourself? Got some strength today?"

He looked at me and nodded slowly.

I felt a bit let down—lost my big entertainment for the day.

Afraid he’d eat all the meat, I sneakily reached my fork to his plate for half the fish.

He saw, and actually pushed the fish plate to me.

I beamed: "Thanks, man. I’ll give you the head and tail, you eat the belly."

Cellmate didn’t speak, didn’t touch the other dishes, just curled his left leg, put the bread on his knee to eat.

He held the fork stiffly—I couldn’t see well, just felt his movements were slow, as if he could only pick up a few crumbs at a time.

"Maybe I should still feed you? At this rate, you’ll eat till the end of time."

His shoulders stiffened, and he immediately buried his head in the bread, eating in big bites.

After eating, he slowly turned to the wall, back to me.

I poked my head curiously: "You gotta pee? You can’t do it sitting—want me to help you up?"

He froze like a statue, didn’t move, just curled his hands, covering his ears.

I laughed.

Turns out he just finds me noisy, wants to face the wall and cover his ears for some peace.

Two days later, that guard Niles came again.

This time he wore a neat green uniform, with a badge, no longer sneaky, led in by a big official.

That official had a fat gold ring, a heavy chain, a big belly, white face powdered up—a classic sleazy look.

"Ugh, it stinks in here." He cursed, took out a handkerchief to cover his nose, didn’t bother to look, only showed the whites of his eyes.

The warden knelt and smiled: "Didn’t know Mr. Evans would grace us—didn’t have time to tidy up."

He respectfully called: "Guard Niles."

I exclaimed: "Niles, you got promoted?"

Niles gave a bitter smile, didn’t answer, just looked into the cell eagerly.

"Open the door! I want to go in."

The warden hesitated, only opened the door after Mr. Evans nodded.

Niles rushed in, a bearded old man with a medical bag followed, smelling of antiseptic—must be a doctor.

They flicked on lanterns, lifted my cellmate’s clothes, examined him inch by inch.

I watched from the side.

Just one look, and I gasped.

Not just whip marks and burns—his right thumb and forefinger had been smashed flat.

Both ankles were broken, twisted at unnatural angles. The right calf almost to the bone... that’s a punishment I once saw in a true crime documentary.

Back then I was too shocked to look, just glanced and hurried by. Now, I saw it all up close.

No wonder every time he moved, he had to prop himself with his hands.

I lived with him three days, never knew he had so many wounds.

Thinking of my "torment" these days, forcing him up to feed him, I wanted to slap myself.

The doctor sighed at every spot he checked.

Suddenly he whispered something.

Niles cried uncontrollably: "Sir, don’t hold it in—you have to pee."

He suddenly thought of something, turned to me: "Miss, can you step out? My boss is a gentleman—would never be indecent in front of a lady."

...Right, I never heard water these three days.

I was tongue-tied, throat blocked.

"Warden, take her out."

For the first time in over fifty days since transmigrating, I left the cell—but all I cared about was the person inside.

When the trickling ended, I hurried back to the door to look in.

The cell was brightly lit with over ten lamps.

The doctor was skillful—needles, knives, thread like embroidery in his hands, using rubbing alcohol and saline to clean the wounds, bandaging them with yards of gauze.

My cellmate was turned over and over, motionless, as if not breathing.

When the two fingers were reset, the scream echoed down the hall—a raw, animal sound that made my stomach flip. Several guards couldn’t hold him down.

Ten fingers are connected to the heart—I can’t imagine that pain. I don’t even know his name or story, but hearing that gut-wrenching scream, I suddenly felt the pain myself.

But at some point, he looked at me through the cell door, then gave up all struggle, closed his eyes, clenched his teeth.

My heart pounded, afraid he’d die—my hands gripping the bars shook.

Suddenly I understood what Niles meant by "gentlemanly and upright."

A gentleman doesn’t want to show his ugly side to others.

When the torture-like treatment finally ended, he was deeply unconscious.

The doctor rested a while, then said to me: "No one to care for him in here—it’s all up to you, miss."

"I’ve prescribed medicine—twice a day, someone will bring it in. Let it cool before feeding, make sure he drinks every drop."

I nodded, memorized all the important instructions.

Suddenly my lower back felt itchy, as if a bug crawled on it.

I turned and was startled by Mr. Evans’s white face.

Evans’ cologne hit me before he did, thick and fake. He lingered too close, his eyes sliding over me like I was something on sale. He brushed my waist with his handkerchief, his slippery gaze circling my waist and hips, then smiled at Niles.

"Guard Niles really went all out for your old boss. A dying man, still finding him a lady companion."

Huh?

Nonsense—what lady companion, I’m just here to talk!

Niles clenched his hidden fist, forced a smile: "Thanks for your kindness, Mr. Evans—may I ask another favor? Can the doctor come daily to change my boss’s dressings? And maybe hire someone to clean the cell..."

Mr. Evans raised his hands north, mockingly.

"Letting you in today is the mayor’s grace. Don’t push your luck, Niles."

He sneered: "Alright. You’ve seen him, wounds are treated. Time to go, Niles—go serve the mayor."

Niles was mortified—everyone present understood.

He betrayed his boss for this one visit.

Niles’s eyes were swollen. He came back and bowed to me three times, voice low but firm.

He looked like a guy begging the judge for one last shot, tears and snot everywhere. "Miss, you’re kind, with my boss in your care, I’m at ease."

"I’m just a nobody, can’t promise more, but I’ve told the warden—daily food won’t be skimped. Even if you lose your head after autumn, I’ll make sure you get a proper burial, tend your grave for life."

Wow, you’re actually a good person.

I understood the hint—he won’t be able to come for the next few months. This visit is a farewell.

Several guards brought pillows and blankets, threw them on the ground.

Everyone left—the cell went dead silent.

Only me and my cellmate left.

I sat for a while, spread the blanket as a mattress, gently moved him on, then lay beside him.

The medicine on him was calming, the quilt soft—I closed my eyes in comfort.

"Man, you must’ve been a big shot—how’d you end up like this?"

"Framed by enemies?"

"Even in prison, someone still runs around for you—kinda enviable."

I rolled over, held up three fingers.

"We two, suffering brother and sister—not born the same day, but let’s die the same day."

I touched my neck: "Wonder if losing your head hurts."

No response, no sound, not even breathing. His left arm touched my right—burning hot.

I reached to feel his face.

Crap, he’s got a fever!

His skin burned under my palm, hotter than any fever I’d ever felt. My own heart started to race.

I cleared my throat.

"Help! This guy’s burning up—any Tylenol? Warden, get me a towel, ice pack, wet cloth!"

My voice bounced around the walls, muffled and useless. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. I whispered under my breath, "Should've taken that first aid class at the Y."

I lay awake, counting his breaths in the dark, praying the next one would come.