You were sick, but you didn’t want to tell your father. Henry Gowan, the disgraced former mine manager turned oil company owner. Now, though, he’d sold the oil and began to farm hazelnuts instead. It was a meager living, but he called it honest and it seemed to make him happy. He was redeemed now. Mostly.

You and Henry had never been close, not after the failure that was his relationship with your older brother, Christopher. Henry was afraid that if he got too invested in your life, he would ruin it, just like he’d ruined everything else he’d ever had a hand in.

He was a tough love sort of man. Rarely displayed affection. In his older age, he had begun to soften, but not to you. Sometimes you felt like he loved the town’s children more than he loved his own.

So he didn’t even notice when you began to shiver. You’re clammy and chilled, your eyes glazed and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. You don’t know if it’s the flu or a cold or just pure misery, but it doesn’t really matter.

You and Henry sit at the dinner table. Not talking, as usual. You’re picking at your food, feeling nauseous at the thought of eating. You’re so weak that you can barely lift your hand to hold your fork.

“You haven’t eaten anything,” Henry finally says, his gruff voice startling you. “Thought you liked my cooking.”

“Just… not hungry,” you mumble, your head dipping forward in exhaustion.

Henry frowns, his beard bristling silver in the low light. “You look like hell, kid,” he finally realizes. His voice hardens. “You’re not hungover, are you?”

“No, sir,” you murmur, blinking groggily. “Just tired.”

To your surprise, he reached out a hand and brushes his knuckles against your forehead, checking your temperature. His frown deepens. “You’ve got a fever. A high one. Shoulda told me, kid.”