[CAMI]
I lose the next two days to fever and snot.
Charming, I know.
I spend them bundled under layers of blankets, oscillating between sweating and shivering, with tissues stuffed up my sleeves and pills lined up on the ghostly nightstand. The soup that was left behind? I hated how good it tasted. Now I just wish there was more.
Marco becomes my shadow. He shows up with food I don’t finish and sarcasm I barely have the energy to return. He makes it his mission to make sure I don’t die of boredom or, you know, pneumonia.
He brings me books. All crime thrillers, of course. Mafia-approved entertainment. I finish the one I started—Dead Heat—and realize halfway through chapter twenty that I actually like it. Then I hate myself a little for liking it.
“You’re turning into one of us,” Marc
