The Son of Every Man

Chapter 8.2

Sunday, August 1st, 1999

He didn't realize Gabe was gone until he woke up at dawn. Morning light glowed in dueling hues through the walls of the tent. Under normal circumstances he might have been slow to rouse himself, assuming the kid had gone out to greet the early morning. But something about the situation didn't feel right. He slid a hand inside Gabe's collapsed sleeping bag: cold as death. He peeked into the small cooler at the corner of the tent. A stubby carton of six eggs lay untouched.

He tugged his jeans up around his waist, pulled his jacket over his t-shirt, slipped on his shoes. He wormed out through a slit opening in the zipper and closed it behind him. The morning air was crisp and raw. The kid was nowhere to be found.

Miguel walked grimly toward the edge of the ravine. He looked over. Gabe lay on the other side of the stream, a few feet up the smooth stone shore against the base of the opposing cliff. He was curled in a fleshy ball, drained of all color.

Miguel turned where he stood and dangled himself over, clung to the stone ledge and then dropped down the ravine wall, scraping through coarse vegetation before regaining footing at the bottom. He splashed across the water, scrambled up to Gabe and pressed against his back and shoulder. Gabe's skin was ice-cold on the surface, but warmth resided within. He squirmed beneath Miguel's touch. His face turned up, and Miguel saw that his lips were blue.

Miguel tore off his jacket, pressed his torso hard against Gabe's, enveloping him, praying for the heat to transfer.

Suddenly bound by the influences of the physical world, Gabe began to shiver. "I'm okay," his weak voice shuddered.

The shivering grew more violent as Miguel lifted him into his arms and waded knee-deep back across the water. He found the bottom of the trail and took careful, heaving steps upward. He brought Gabe into the tent, placed him inside his sleeping bag, then nestled in beside him, enveloping his madly shaking body.

The following minutes presented a new agony to Miguel as he attempted to elicit some kind of meaningful response from Gabe, who was so far only capable of repeating the words, "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay," in a haunting slur.

"I used to stay too long in the bath as a kid," Miguel told him. He tried to sound calm. "I'd play with my toys for what felt like hours. The water got so cold..."

Gabe whimpered against him.

"My mother would finally come in. She'd look at my pruny hands and blue lips and pretend to be mad. I'd be shaking so hard I could barely talk. Then she'd wrap me in this oversized towel—it was the softest thing you could imagine. She'd sit on a little stool and hold me in her lap and rock me back and forth."

The shivering seemed to lessen against his skin, but still, Gabe did not speak.

"Come on." Tears welled in Miguel's eyes. "Didn't your mom ever do anything like that?"

"Not that I can remember."

Miguel felt that uncharacteristically deep voice ring against his chest as if it were his own. He moved down against Gabe, bringing their faces level. "Jesus, are you okay? You scared me to death."

"I'll survive."

"You're still shivering."

"It'll go away." Gabe said. "You know what? I don't think I've ever felt this good in my whole life."

Miguel refused to let the kid go until sweat formed tiny dewdrops on his smooth temples. He made him drink half a liter of water from a milk-white Nalgene, then disentangled himself at long last to cook them both breakfast at the bottom of the ravine. He turned back for a final word before leaving the tent: "Get out of that sleeping bag and I'll kill you."