tiptoeing through a

There were a thousand things she wanted to say. She wanted to yell at him to take better care of himself, to cry like a child at how she’d thought he was dead, to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Instead, she took the washcloth off of his forehead and dipped it back into the bowl of water. “You really should try to go back to sleep, sir,” she said, wringing out the washcloth and dabbing at his face with it. “You need your rest right now.”Ever the diligent second-in-command. Ever the emotionless wall.