“How did heget it?”
Dylan’s arms tighten around me possessively.
“Did he touch you?” he wants to know. “If you’re sick and it’s his
fault, I’ll tear his arms off. Which one is he again?”
“Baby,” I whisper, patting Dylan’s
hand, “hush.”
He sighs. “Neal, tell me—”
“We got in a little… argument,” I say.
“Nothing major, don’t worry. He didn’t touchme.” But he
wanted to,I add silently. Still, I know Dylan well enough to
know that if I tell him what happened, the way Tobin came onto me,
the way he touched himself while looking at me—if I told him
that, he’d be down in the quarantine ward in two seconds,
ripping every single one of those ratty curls out of the kid’s
head. Much as I might like to see that happen, I don’t think that
would be a prudent course of action right this second, seeing as
how these people are finally beginning to trust us.
Well, to trust Shanley, at any rate.
“How do you think it spreads?” I ask him, trying to move on.