September 6

I chuck the bathroom gear into the closet, crumple the prescription up, and crawl under the covers. A nap will do me a world of good, I think.
When I wake up a couple hours later, my forehead is beaded over with sweat, and the fogginess that had been encasing my thoughts is lifted. I feel tremendously better, but still not a hundred percent. I look over at the clock, and see that it’s just after six-thirty in the evening. Some sounds are coming from the living room; I pull the comforter off my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, and head out.
Kyle is sitting on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, bare feet up on the table, with the controller cord wrapped around her left ankle. Some game or another is on the TV. “Did I wake you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. The creakiness in my throat is gone, too, I notice. “I think I broke the fever.”
“Good, good,” she says. “You’re still gonna be vulnerable. I think there’s still some lemonade in the fridge.”
I nod and wait for her to wave me across her field of vision; once I have the signal, I step gingerly over the cord and into the dining room area. “Did I miss anything?”

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