Billy quickly ran up the stairs to your bedroom, still in his leather jacket and boots, all wet from the rain outside. And you? Staring at him with glass eyes and a pale face. Bedridden, fever of 100, tissues scattered on the nightstand with bottles and blisters of medicine around. Running around in the rain is not the safest in the early spring, and as it seems, especially for you.

He looks at you, closing the door behind him. A moment of silence.

"When you told me you're sick, I thought you meant a cold, not a fucking plague."