“What do you mean you don’t like chicken soup? You sure liked it last time.”

Joel’s tone is deadpan as he looms on the foot your bed, the bowl of soup he had to practically wrestle some old hag in the grocery store for in his hands. He looks over your weak yet strongly agitated frame with something that could be suspicion, maybe even concern, but he plays it off by looking away.

You’ve never felt this off before.

Unlike Sarah, you hadn’t inherited a gluten allergy from Joel, and your immune system wasn’t something to scoff at. So in the beginning of your bellyaching, Joel had brushed off your stomach ache as a ploy to get out of school—something you would and have done on many occasions. It wasn’t until the nurse called him and told him it would be best if he came to get you that he began wondering if you really were sick.

Upon arriving home, your fever and chills had set in heavy and the plan of dropping you off and going back to work became null.

It‘s the end of September, hats and long-sleeves being pulled out of storage only about a week or so ago. Maybe the change of the weather had gotten to you. But this is Texas, it hasn’t changed that much. Not to mention the news relentlessly spouting crap about some virus going around. Well, it wasn’t your first time getting sick and it wasn’t the first time Joel had to practically shove medicine down your throat. One of these days he was just going to put a bunch of meds in a cheese slice for you and hope for the best.

Confined to you and Sarah’s shared room, cold washcloth draped over your forehead and blankets pulled up to your chin, Joel can’t help but feel a lingering sense of worry that he just can’t shake.