38

"Your skin is flushed, Ashlyn. Are you feeling ill?" His voice was thick with concern. He reached out to place the back of his hand on her forehead. She flinched, her head pulling back. She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn't have to see his reaction. But his hand followed, a salve to the burn.

Her answering nod was weak. She fanned her cheeks, feeling a little feverish. Perhaps that was it, she was getting sick, and that was why she couldn't think straight.

She should have taken that excuse, asked to reschedule, then gone home, but for some reason unknown to her, she couldn't make her hands form the words. Instead, she gave a thumbs up and slipped gently from beneath his hand.

I think I just need to eat. I haven't eaten since breakfast, she signed. It was the truth. In her apprehensive state that afternoon, the thought of eating had made her feel queasy. The lack of nutrition had to explain why she was feeling this way all of a sudden. Like some form of hunger-induced delusion?