Neither did he.
Baraka went back to the kitchen, grabbed a clean cloth and a bucket of fresh water. He dampened the cloth and began cooling the fever the way he had seen his grandmother do when he was a child, changing the cloth, placing it on her forehead, then her neck, offering spoonfuls of thin porridge.
No skill.
No training.
Just will.
That first night, he slept sitting at the edge of her bed, eyes wide open, alert to the slightest movement.
When Azima muttered in her fevered delirium, he whispered, “You are staying. No need to run.”
It was like speaking to the air, but every word carried a quiet faith.
The second night, she woke with a start. She tried to sit up, but fell back onto the pillow. Her eyes were wide, confused, unsure of where she was.
Baraka took her hand firmly, but gently.
“Easy. You are safe. No one is going to touch you here.”
It was the first time he said here with that tone.
A here that meant shelter.
Promise.
Solid ground.
Azima, even if she did not fully understand, closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The night was long, and her body burned like embers.
Baraka alternated between whispered prayers and old songs his mother used to hum when fever threatened his childhood. He no longer knew whether it was faith or desperation, but he did not want to lose her.
Not this girl.
Not now.
