“I think I’m dying.” Hal complains miserably from his bed, curled up underneath his covers; tissue held out towards his nose as he sneezes again. “I think I have space tetanus.”

He doesn’t have space tetanus. He just has a cold, a particularly nasty cold, but just a cold. There’s nothing seriously wrong with him. But if his complaining was to be believed, he was ‘dying’.

“Did you get my chicken noodle soup?” He’s been requesting homemade soup since he got sick.