Page 74 of The Turning of the Tables

Do you want me to call?

It hurts to talk.

I’ll stay right here.

He did.For the next three hours while I half-dozed, half-watched an endless series of Disney movies, because I didn’t have the energy or ability to concentrate on anything pitched above about the fourth grade level. Keeping me from trying to think too much, because my head hurt and my optimism from the day before had been extremely misplaced.

I was at least able to keep down the ice cream, soup broth, and 7Up, and Noah had added chocolate milk to the list, but nothing solid.

The real problem was that the fever had come back with an absolute vengeance, however. I had two heating pads, every blanket Noah could find plus a new fleece one he’dbought, and I was wearing sweat pants and a sweat shirt under the pile of fabric.

I was still shivering.

My throat felt raw—ice cream and chocolate milk were about the only things that made it feel better—and speaking was out of the question. My skull felt like it was full or spikes or broken glass, the skin of my forehead so sensitive to touch that I could barely stand to have the damp washcloth on it.

Focusing on anything—the questions Noah asked me, the memes and questions and little texted stories Elliot sent me, the movies I think I watched more than once because I couldn’t follow most of what was happening—was like trying to read through water. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t force my brain to hear or comprehend it.

Noah left me for ten minutes to go buy a thermometer, which he stuck under my tongue.

“Seth, we need to go in,” he said softly, his voice worried.

“Go where?” I asked, not understanding what he wanted.

“The hospital,” he replied, his tone clipped.

“Why?”

“Your fever is way too high,” he told me.

“For what?”

He let out a sigh, frustrated with me, although I wasn’t sure why. “To stay at home,” he said flatly. “We need to go in.”

“In what?” I was struggling to understand why he was so upset.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Just… can you get up?”

“I don’t want to get up,” I complained. “I’m tired.”

“I know you are,” he said softly. “But I need you to get up.”

“I’m cold, Nono. I want to stay in the blankets.”

“I know, Sethy.” He started pulling the blankets off me, and I clung to some of them. “But you can’t take them all with you.”

“Take them with me where?”

Noah sat down on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. “Seth, please,” he rasped, emotion thickening his voice, although I didn’t understand why he was so upset.

“Please what?”

“Just… get up. Please. For me.” He was pleading with me, and while I didn’t want to get up, I also didn’t want Noah to be upset.

“I’ll try,” I told him, because my legs felt like lead, and as soon as I sat up to try to stand up, it felt like I was on that old ride from carnivals when I was a kid—the Tilt-a-Whirl. I shut my eyes. “I don’t think I can, Nono,” I whispered.

“I’ll help you,” he said, moving off the bed so that he could put his smaller body under my armpit. Noah might be shorter and slimmer than I am, but he is a shifter, which meant that his strength was significantly more than you’d expect for his size. He maybe couldn’t carry me, but he could absolutely maneuver me—with my admittedly pathetic help—into a pair of loafers and then down into the car. It wasn’teasy, but I couldn’t say whether it was harder for him or for me.

I was clammy, sweaty, and still somehow cold by the time Noah got me into the passenger seat. He was also sweaty, but from actual exertion. Hauling my heavy ass down the stairs and into the car wasn’t easy, even for a shifter.