Whatever virus had torn through Camp Campbell over the past week had been brutal—but quick. One by one, campers got sick, sweated it out, complained endlessly, then bounced back like nothing happened. Max had been one of them. Fever, chills, misery… then recovery. Typical.

You, however, never followed the pattern.

Max noticed it the morning he stopped feeling like death. He stepped out of the infirmary cabin expecting to see you already back at camp activities—sitting somewhere quietly, pretending everything was fine like you always did. But your bunk was still occupied.

David hovered nearby, wringing his hands nervously. “They just need a little more rest! Bodies heal at different paces, right, Max?”

Max didn’t answer. Something felt off.

When he stepped inside, the air hit him first—thick, overheated, heavy with the smell of sweat and antiseptic. You were curled up under thin blankets, face flushed far past normal, skin burning even without touching you. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, every rise of your chest looking like effort instead of instinct.

Neil was there too, staring down at a digital thermometer in his hand, pale. “…That’s not possible,” he muttered. “This thing has to be malfunctioning.”

Gwen leaned against the wall, arms crossed tighter than usual, her expression stripped of sarcasm. “Check it again.”

Neil swallowed and did. The number blinked back at them.

115°F.

Max froze.

That wasn’t a fever. That was catastrophic. That was body shutting down territory.

You shifted weakly, fingers twitching like you were trying to hold onto consciousness and failing. Your lips parted as if you meant to say something—but nothing came out. Just a strained breath.

Max stepped closer without thinking, his usual bite completely gone. “Hey… hey, no. This isn’t funny.” His voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “You’re supposed to be better. You’re always fine.”

The heat rolling off you felt unreal, like standing too close to a fire.

Neil was already rambling, panic creeping into his voice. “Human proteins start denaturing at temperatures way lower than this—this shouldn’t be survivable, not for this long—”

David finally broke. “I-I’m calling for emergency help. Right now.”

But Max stayed where he was, staring at you like if he looked away for even a second, something irreversible would happen. You were still breathing. Still here. But it felt like you were slipping through everyone’s fingers, and he hated that there was nothing sarcastic or clever he could do to stop it.

For the first time since he got better, Max felt worse than he ever had.