Chapter 21

Charlotte unpleasantly woke up from the immediate throbbing pain radiating from her left side. For a disorientating moment, she couldn't remember why she hurt so badly, why her mouth felt like a desert and her skin felt like it was on fire.

Then her eyes drifted over to Carl slumped in the chair beside her bed, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, dark circles under his eyes even in sleep. His t-shirt was still stained with her now brown blood, and he hadn't quite laid down like he was planning to go to sleep, instead like he didn't mean to.

Despite everything, despite the bullet wound, despite the fact that he'd shot her, despite the way her world had tilted to the side last night, Charlotte felt something warm and soft flutter in her chest at the sight of him. He'd stayed. All night, he'd stayed by her side, watching over her in case something went wrong.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're supposed to be angry at him. He shot you. He fucking shot you.

But it was hard to maintain anger when he looked so innocent and vulnerable in sleep, when she could see the worry etched into every line of his face even when unconscious. He didn't look like he could even hold a gun right now, let alone use it.

Charlotte tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through her side like lightning, and she had to bite back a cry that would have woken Carl up. Worse than the pain, though, was the way her vision swam and her skin felt simultaneously burning hot and ice cold at the same time.

Fever, she realized with growing alarm. Shit, I've got a fever.

She touched her forehead with a shaking hand and felt the heat of an infection setting in. Her makeshift bandage felt wet and warm against her side, not a good sign. The wound was getting worse, not better.

Charlotte closed her eyes and tried to think clearly through the haze of fever and pain. She needed help, real medical help, but getting it meant explaining how she'd been shot in the first place. It meant revealing her secret trips outside the walls, meant confirming everyone's worst suspicions about her.

But the alternative might be dying of infection in her bed while Carl slept three feet away. It sure as hell felt like it.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs made the decision for her. Charlotte barely had time to pull her blanket up to her chin before Glenn appeared in her doorway, already dressed for the day with two cups of coffee in his hands.

"Morning," he said quietly, glancing at Carl's sleeping form. Glenn wasn't exactly happy about them being...whatever they were. But he kinda expected it. "Thought you might want some—" Glenn stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he took in Charlotte's appearance.

Even in the dim morning light, she knew she must look terrible. Her face was flushed with fever, her hair damp with sweat, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Jesus, Charlotte, what happened?" Glenn set the coffee cups aside and moved quickly to her side. "You look like hell."

Charlotte opened her mouth to lie, to make up some story about food poisoning or a stomach bug, but all that came out was a weak whine as another wave of pain crashed over her.

The sound woke Carl instantly. He jerked upright in his chair, immediately alert in the way that came from years of survival. His eyes found Charlotte's face, and his expression shifted from confusion to alarm in the span of a heartbeat. He barely registered Glenn sitting there.

"She's burning up," Glenn said in concern, pressing the back of his hand to Charlotte's forehead. "This isn't normal sick. Something's really wrong."

"Charlotte?" Carl said urgently, leaning forward in his chair. "How are you feelin'?"

Charlotte tried to focus on his face, but everything seemed to be swimming. "Hot," she managed. "Everything hurts."

Glenn's gaze shifted between Charlotte and Carl, taking in the blood on Carl's shirt, the way he was sitting so close to her bed like he'd been there all night. "Carl? What the fuck is going on? How did this happen?" Glenn spoke quickly, his words rushed, eyes wide.

Carl's mouth opened and closed several times, no words coming out. Charlotte could see the panic in his eyes, the desperate search for an explanation that wouldn't put them both into the shit.

"I... she... we were..." Carl stammered, his hands fidgeting with the edge of Charlotte's soft, pink blanket. "It's complicated."

"Complicated?" Glenn's voice was getting higher, more stressed. "Carl, she's clearly seriously injured or sick, and you're covered in blood. What is complicated about telling me what happened?"

"Glenn," Carl said weakly, but he had nothing else, no explanation that would make any sense.

Glenn stared at them both for another moment, then seemed to make a decision. "I don't care what happened right now. We're getting her to the infirmary."

"No-" Charlotte tried to protest, but her voice came out as barely a whisper.

"Yes," Glenn said firmly. "Carl, help me get her up. We need to move fast."

Getting Charlotte out of bed and down the stairs was a nightmare. She was barely conscious, her body burning with fever, waves of nausea passing through her with every movement and sent fresh waves of agony through her wounded side. Carl and Glenn had to practically carry her, and by the time they reached the infirmary, Charlotte was completely limp and unconscious between them.

Denise took one look at Charlotte's condition and immediately shifted into crisis mode. "Get her on the table, now. What happened?"

"We don't know," Glenn said quickly, shooting a warning look at Carl. "We found her like this."

Denise began cutting away Charlotte's shirt to examine her properly, and her expression grew increasingly grim as she revealed the extent of the injury.

"This is a gunshot wound," Denise said flatly, looking up at Carl and Glenn with sharp eyes. "Frangible bullet, lower left abdomen. Who did the initial treatment?"

Carl's face went white, but he didn't answer.

"It doesn't matter right now," Denise continued, turning back to Charlotte's unconscious form. "The wound is infected. Badly. Tara!" she called to her assistant, and also girlfriend. "I need antibiotics, gauze, bandages, and the surgical kit. We need to clean this out and start her on IV antibiotics ASAP."

Tara appeared with the requested supplies, her eyes widening when she saw the extent of Charlotte's condition. "How long has she been like this?"

"We don't know," Glenn repeated, but his eyes were flickering from his sister in law to Carl with growing suspicion.

The next couple of hours was a blur of medical activity. Denise worked with focused intensity, cleaning out the infected wound, suturing what could be sutured, pumping Charlotte full of antibiotics and fluids. Carl and Glenn stayed pressed against the far wall, staying out of the way but unable to leave.

"It's worse than it initially appeared," Denise said finally, stripping off her bloodied gloves. "The bullet nicked her intestine. Not badly, but enough to cause internal bleeding and infection. If you'd waited much longer to bring her in..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear, her words hanging in the air.

"Is she going to be okay?" Carl asked, his voice barely audible, eyes wide with worry.

"I don't know," Denise answered honestly with a small shrug. "The infection is pretty bad. She's young and strong, but..." She shook her head. "The next 24 hours will tell us everything."

Charlotte lay unconscious on the hospital bed, her face pale, an IV line running into her arm and monitors beeping steadily around her. She looked impossibly small and fragile surrounded by all the medical equipment.

"I need to report this," Denise said quietly. "A gunshot wound... Rick needs to know."

"Please," Carl said desperately. "Just... give us some time. Let us figure out how to explain this."

Denise looked between Carl and Glenn, clearly struggling with the decision. "Twenty four hours," she said finally. "I'll keep this between us for twenty four hours, but only because she's critical right now and doesn't need the additional stress. After that, people are going to start asking questions that i can't avoid answering."

Carl nodded gratefully and immediately moved to pull a chair up beside Charlotte's bed. He settled into it like he planned to stay there forever. He shook his head, running a hand over his face. How could he be so stupid and listen to her? She could've died! And it would have been his fault for causing the injury and not getting her help quick enough.

"Carl," Glenn said gently. "Maybe you should go get some rest. Clean clothes. Something to eat."

"I'm not leavin' her," Carl said firmly, taking Charlotte's limp hand in his own.

Glenn studied his face for a moment, then sighed. "Okay. But you're going to tell me what really happened. All of it."

Carl looked up at Glenn, then back at Charlotte's pale face. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I will."

But first, she had to wake up. She had to be okay.

Because if she wasn't, if she died because of his mistake, because of his moment of fear, Carl wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forgive himself.

The monitors beeped steadily around them, marking time, marking unsteady heartbeats, marking the uncertain space between life and death where Charlotte now treaded on like thin ice.

All they could do was wait.