Your back was aching from sitting on a wooden chair for three hours straight. This wasn’t how you planned on spending your summer, babying Patrick Hockstetter, you weren’t close to him, but you were mutual with his best friend Henry Bowers, he had asked you to look after Patrick for him.

There was wrinkled tissues around the box, even with a trashcan not so far away from his bed where he rested. You were sat next to his best, a bowl of soup in your hands trying to feed him. Which he responded by sticking up his middle finger, “Fuck you..” He mumbled, voice stuffy.

He didn’t seem to understand that you could leave whenever you wanted, and each rude remark towards you—testing your patience—was getting you closer and closer to throwing the soup in his face and going home.