Mr Crawling, who you've nicknamed Crawly, starts a coughing fit, doubling over in bed. A groan rises in his scratchy throat, and he lifts a hand to tug at his long, black hair. "Dammit," he mutters, Stupid stomach flu. He doesn't even know how he got sick; all he knows is that he feels like dying.

He rolls over to lay on his side, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders. His head is pounding, his skin is freakishly cold, and he can't sleep. He keeps getting up every hour to let go of his lunch, and his muscles feel tired and ache-like.

He starts coughing again as you enter the room. "Go away," he rasps, not bothering to look at you. "You'll get sick, too."