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Patrick's fever climbs to 39.1°C by noon — high, but he is breathing normally, drinking, responsive, and showing no signs that require medical attention. For now: paracetamol, fluids, and rest. I give him the paracetamol at the correct intervals. I bring him water. I bring him fruit — grapes and orange segments and the apple variety he prefers, which I know because I pay attention.

He sleeps a great deal. This is good. The body is doing what the body does when it is fighting something, and sleep is part of that, and I do not wake him.

I work from my study. The video call at 14:00 goes smoothly, I join three minutes early, as I always do, and the Frankfurt team is, if anything, more efficient without the travel time on either side. I make a note of this.

At 16:00 I check on Patrick.

He is awake, lying on his back looking at the ceiling, having clearly been staring at the ceiling for some time.

"How are you feeling," I say.

"Terrible," he says.

"Your temperature was 39.1°C at noon. Has it changed?"

"I don't know," he says. "I feel terrible."

I take his temperature. 38.9°C.

"Marginally better," I say.

"Marginally," he says. Like the word has personally offended him.

I bring him more water. I bring the paracetamol. I sit on the edge of the bed while he takes it.

"You don't have to sit here," he says.

"I know," I say.

He looks at me. "Jan."

"Yes."

"You'll get sick," he says. Quietly.

"I won't," I say.

I lie down beside him. He immediately puts his arm around me, heavy and warm and slightly damp, which is the fever, and makes the sound he makes when something is exactly right.

I lie there and feel his temperature through his sweatshirt and think about Frankfurt and decide that Frankfurt was, on reflection, not very important.

Tuesday is worse before it is better.

The fever peaks at 39.3°C at seven in the morning. I stand in the bathroom looking at the thermometer, running the calculation — high, but consistent with yesterday. He is responsive, breathing normally, and drinking. Nothing has changed in a way that requires medical attention. I give him paracetamol and make him drink a full glass of water and sit with him while he does it.

"You're doing the nurse face," he says.

"I don't have a nurse face," I say.

"You do," he says. "It's the focused one. You're assessing me."

"I'm always assessing," I say.

"Not like this," he says. He drinks the water. "You're worried."

"I'm being appropriately cautious," I say.

He looks at me over the glass. "Same thing," he says.