Fever
Who: Quinn and Clay What: Misery in the tree Where: The climber When: Afternoon of Day 8 Rating: PG to start.
Clearly, he was dying. Quinn was absolutely certain that all of this tossing around was going to cause some broken rib to puncture his lung and kill him right in this ridiculous hammock. Or maybe the whole thing would let go and he would blow away. That would surely kill him as well. He was ashamed to admit that during the worst of the storm and while battling the absolute agony that was shivering a bucking around, he'd wet himself right in the hammock. Not out of fear, just out of need and the inability to get himself up and down the tree. He hoped enough rain had come down on him since to have washed away the worst of the evidence.
Now, as the wind quieted down and the steel gray sky above drizzeled down on him, Quinn was hot. Uncomfortably warm and parched like he'd spent the day out in the desert, not drowning in a lush tree. Bad news. He knew this must be a fever. His jaw ached from teeth chattering even though he felt like his bones had turned to molten lava and now, after the worst of it had passed, he slept fitfully.
It was during one of those deeply passed out segements of his day that Quinn climbed out of the hammock. In the trance of a sleepwalker he somehow managed to make it to the tree trunk without slipping and falling. Blindly, he groped for the handholds and made his first attempt ever at climbing down the tree instead of being lowered with his foot in a vine loop. All the while, he was mumbling about going to the kitchen to get a glass of water.