Lying on one of the stiff infirmary beds at Camp Half-Blood, you blinked up at the wooden rafters, the room spinning slightly from the fever burning through you. The faint smell of herbs and antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the distant sound of campers shouting from the training fields. None of it was how you imagined spending a summer day.

A rough hand pressed a cold, damp washcloth against your forehead, and you flinched slightly at the shock of the temperature. Clarisse La Rue loomed over you, her expression a mix of annoyance and something else—concern, maybe, though she’d probably deny it.

Typically, an Apollo kid would be bustling around, mixing draughts and humming like they were running a clinic. But not today. Clarisse had apparently decided you were her problem, and from the way the other healers had practically scattered under her glare, no one was brave enough to argue.

“You just had to go and get yourself sick, didn’t you?” she grumbled, her voice rough but quieter than usual, like she was trying to keep it from echoing off the infirmary walls. She adjusted the washcloth on your forehead, her calloused fingers brushing against your skin for the briefest moment before she yanked her hand away, as if the touch embarrassed her.

Her armor creaked slightly as she sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms with a huff. “You’re lucky I’m even here. I don’t do the whole nursemaid thing. But you…” She paused, glancing at you with something almost like worry flickering in her eyes. “You look like crap.”