His leg hurt. And he felt sick. And hot. And so damned tired. His fever had spiked sometime before dawn—over a hundred and four. He’d downed some Advil and taken cold shower after cold shower to bring it down. It was hovering around a hundred and two now. Not great, but at least he was able to move without falling down.

He got out of the minivan and clutched the frame when new dizziness slammed him hard. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He’d been saying that all day, cursing when he’d woken that morning to find it was after ten a.m. The clinic had already opened, and he wasn’t going to attempt a B&E when there were people there. So he’d waited, taking more cold showers and using all the antibiotic cream on the fucking wounds, which continued to be swollen and oozing. Red streaks traveled from them in all directions, a sure sign of blood poisoning. Sepsis. Fucking hell.

He was going septic, and according to the Internet, he could die. Fucking hell. After all this, he could die from a fucking infection.

“Not going to happen,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Evelyn had been right. He needed antibiotics, and fast. He’d already Googled how to give himself an IV, so that he could do it quickly if he found the supplies. He hoped his hands wouldn’t shake too much to get a needle into himself.

He also hoped they wouldn’t shake while he was trying to pick the lock on the clinic’s rear door. Taking his lockpick set from his pocket, he fought against the chills that continued to rack his whole body.

This is what I get for trying to do the right thing. I never should have checked on that damn kid. Joshua fucking Rowland. I should have gone home to bed. Then Michael Rowland never would have seen him and he wouldn’t be in this mess.

But thinking like that wasn’t going to help him now. Now he needed antibiotics. As soon as he got inside, he was grabbing every antibiotic he could find, in whatever form he could find it. He could use some painkillers, too, but the clinic’s website clearly stated that they did not dispense narcotics of any kind.

He frowned. The website also clearly stated that their hours were eight to five, but the doorknob turned easily, before he’d even tried to pick the lock. Either someone had been stupid and not locked up, or someone was here.

He hesitated, his hand on the cool metal of the handle. If someone was here . . . He shook his head hard, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t matter who else was here. He was here and he wasn’t going to back out now. He was going to get the damn antibiotics, because he was not going to die.