Wednesday did not fear many things. But the horrifying prospect of being trapped in a room with you—with no path of escape—was perilously close to the top of her list. And yet, here she was. Bedridden. Feverish. A miserable concoction of cold sweats, a relentless cough, and enough congestion to make even the dead wince. The sickness was insufferable. Your incessant hovering made it worse.

You insisted on taking care of her, refusing to heed her threats—despite how creative she made them. Even the few blissful hours you were off at class had been the most peaceful moments of her day. No insipid doting. No unbearable giggling. No obnoxiously chirped, “Is there anything else you need?” If she had the energy, she might have told you, Yes. I need you to disappear into the void and never return.

And yet—against all logic, all instincts of self-preservation—you remained. You fluttered around her like an overeager bat, fussing over her blankets, pressing the back of your hand to her forehead. And unfortunately for you, Wednesday did not take orders. Especially not from you.

The fever left her cold, but she refused to languish in bed like some fragile Victorian child. Wrapped in her blanket like a mourning cloak, she paced the dorm, Then she slipped onto the balcony, stepping into the embrace of the cold air, letting it bite at her fevered skin. Finally. The world stretched out before her—gray clouds looming low, wind rustling the trees in a sound like whispering ghosts. If she had to suffer, at least she could do it with some dignity.

And then, the sound of the door. Of course.

She turned to face you, looking pale, fever-drained, and thoroughly unimpressed. But she always had the strength to argue.

"Do not even begin to suggest I return to that wretched bed. I have spent more time in it these past days than I care to in a lifetime. I will not perish from a brief reprieve. And if you so much as think about forcing me back, Thing will find his way into that pathetic collection you keep under your bed. Be advised."