>Couldn’t say it surprised you.
>She was sluggish and tired all day yesterday.
>When she moved from the couch to the bedroom last night, it took herculean effort.
>She wasn’t getting out of bed today.
“Say ‘ah.’” You ordered, pointing a wooden tongue depressor at Zoroark.
>She blinked stupidly, struggling to process your instruction.
>”Agh…” She grunted.
>She didn’t open her mouth.
>You weren’t sure if that was the bug was clouding her mind or she didn’t understand the expression.
“C’mon, girl, open your mouth.” You repeated, rephrasing the instruction.
>You helped in what little way you could, cupping her jaw and coaxing it down.
>A sad, pitiful wheeze passed through her lips.
>And a foul smell, reeking of sickness.
>Some primal part of your brain urged you to keep away.
>Grimacing, you tilted her mouth toward the light and pressed her tongue down.
>As you guessed, she had one hell of a sore throat.
>Raw, spotted, and discolored.
>You’d encourage her to gargle her fruity mouthwash later.
>Maybe something stronger, now that you think of it.
>Much as she hated mint, her throat could use the stronger alcohol in what you use.
>’If it burns, it’s working’, you remembered grandpa told you.
>After throwing the contaminated tool in the garbage bin you grabbed a thermometer.
>Holding an alcohol wipe, you made to swab the tool clean when something appeared at the edge of your vision.
>This was new.
>Not entirely unexpected, given who you were nursing.
>Smears of color bled into existence.
>Here and there, light bent wrong.
>Like looking at clouds, if you looked hard enough, you could spot shapes and figures in the muddy hues.
>Your patient groaned, and she struggled under the covers.
>She sniffed and snorted.
>Mucus ran from her nose.
>Her sapphire eyes watered.
>As you touched Zoroark’s forehead she cried.
>She clutched her throat, massaging it with her crimson claws.
>The tears flowed, wetting the short, red hairs surrounding her eye.
