“Maybe you should take it easy when you’re sick,” I said, my voice going high and scoldy. He had a fever. We’d canceled the dinner guests.

He went out anyway and pulled up a couple of little bee-bee trees and hacked at some greenbrier nests. Greenbrier, no matter the season—October, this was—is the worst kind of mess, snaggletoothed and jungly.

“It’s awful stuff,” he said, back inside. The greenbrier, he meant. He put the thermometer in his mouth. Sniffing, he waited for the beeps. “Oh. 101.9. No wonder I’m dragging.” Planted on the sofa, too wasted, he had to let his noodle soup wait.

Tell me, isn’t it better for a person coming down with something to crumple at the first chance like I do? Not tax himself? I don’t understand. He’s fuzzed in the head and bleary and he just goes out and ratchets up the torture.

 


 

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