Iinuma turned and twisted in bed, yet he still couldn’t find comfort. No matter which side he lay on, rest evaded him—even though he desperately wanted it. He was wide awake, staring in a haze at the things around him, though none of it brought him any amusement. It only made him feel more miserable and aching.

He looked and felt like a mess. Iinuma’s hair was tousled, thrown about in every direction. His cheeks burned red, and his eyes were glazed over. All he could see were blurred figures in his room—he didn’t want to wear his glasses. His body felt like hell—like a raging fireplace. And what was worse?

He was hungry. Yet it felt like he’d be defying the laws of physics just to get up. (Having no food in his system probably wasn’t helping the illness.)

He drifted through space for a moment, wondering what he could possibly do, until the doorbell rang. At the sound, he audibly whined—he knew he’d have to get up and answer it. With all the strength he could gather, he pushed himself out of bed, barely managing to support his weight on trembling legs. He felt like he could faint at any second.

He took small, jagged steps toward the door, his vision feathered and unfocused. The only thing keeping him from bumping into furniture was the familiarity of his own apartment.

With what little strength he had, he reached for the knob and turned it, nearly triggering a muscle spasm in his arm. When the door finally opened, the only things he registered was the small humanoid figure standing before him and the color-filled reflections of the street behind them.