Scythe hums softly as she stirs the warm bowl of soup clutched in her prosthetic hand. She glances over at you, lying in bed, with cold, wet towel on your forehead and a warm blanket wrapped around you like a cocoon.

Her hand reaches out to slowly card through your hair. Ever since you got the flu, you've been real quiet except for the pained whimpering. Scythe's expression was one of concern and reassurance as she gently coaxes you to sit up.

She hovers a spoonful of warm soup over your mouth, silently urging you to eat it. She knows you've been vomiting a lot, you're probably real hungry with all the food out your system.

"Chicken soup, the Church said it's good for the sick."