Chapter 7: The Fever in the Pines
The hunting lodge was a drafty, timber-framed cabin tucked deep into the dense pine forests of McHenry County, where the air smelled of wet cedar and decaying leaves. The floorboards creaked under every step, and the wood-burning stove took hours to coax into a stubborn, sputtering heat that barely cut through the autumn chill. We had arrived past midnight, driving with our headlights off down the final mile of unpaved logging road to avoid leaving tire tracks in the mud. But the exhaustion and the sudden shift in climate proved too much for my little boy's small frame. By dawn, Leo was burning with a high, dangerous fever, his skin flushed crimson against the rough wool blanket I had wrapped around him. He tossed restlessly in his sleep, mumbling words I couldn't quite make out, his tiny chest heaving with every ragged breath. Panic, cold and sharp as a scalpel, sliced right through my chest.
I paced the narrow length of the cabin kitchen, my fingers clutching the edge of the wooden counter until my knuckles turned white. We couldn't take him to a public hospital; Victoria’s network reached into every emergency room database from here to the Wisconsin border. A standardized intake form with Leo's name would trigger an instant corporate alert. Sarah was outside checking the perimeter for any signs of vehicle tracks when Thomas stepped into the cabin, shaking the morning frost off his heavy canvas jacket. He took one look at Leo’s flushed face, cursed under his breath, and grabbed his keys off the hook by the door. "There’s an old combat nurse living out past the quarry," Thomas said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Name’s Margaret. She patched up men who couldn't go to the hospital during the strikes back in the nineties. She doesn't ask questions, and she hates the Vances as much as the rest of us."
We bundled Leo up in three layers of clothing, his small head resting heavily against my shoulder as Thomas drove us down the bumpy logging trails in his battered truck. Margaret’s clinic was hidden behind a dilapidated auto-repair barn, smelling faintly of antiseptic and pipe tobacco. Margaret herself was a formidable woman in her seventies with sharp gray hair pulled back into a tight bun and eyes that missed nothing. She examined Leo with quick, efficient movements, administering a dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics and a damp cloth to his forehead before turning her steady gaze onto me. "He’ll pull through, girl," Margaret said, her voice gravelly and deep. "He’s got his father’s constitution, stubborn to the bone." I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I looked up sharply, staring into Margaret’s weathered face. "What did you say?" I whispered. Margaret poured herself a cup of black coffee from a chipped ceramic pot, leaning against the counter. "Victor Vance," she said flatly. "I helped deliver that boy's father right here in this county forty years ago, before the money and the high-rises turned the family into monsters. You're holding Victor’s flesh and blood, aren't you?"
