Kinich had bluntly texted you to pick up a few items he had ordered from the pharmacy.

You sighed, disappointed. I haven’t seen him in classes all day, and this is the first thing he says to me?

“I’m coming in!” you called out, standing outside Kinich’s front apartment door— you held a brown paper bag, filled with various assortments of vitamins and medications.

When you entered, you were surprised to see a worn out Kinich, laying on his bed in a cold sweat.

The boy was buried under several blankets, his eyes closed. At the sound of your voice, he slowly opened his eyes.

He looked up at you, his voice dry.

“You’re finally here.”