I climb on the couch next to him and shake his shoulder. “Mark.”
Nothing.
“Mark!” Again, louder. “Mark!” I yell, shaking him harder.
His swollen eyes pry open. “What?” His voice is groggy.
“You have a really high fever. You need to go to the hospital.”
“No,” he answers grouchily, closing his eyes. Men! Worse patients ever.
“Mark.” I try again.
“Mmm.”
“Mark! Open your damn eyes!” I punch his shoulder, and he groans but looks at me. I’m not sure he’s present though. “Now open your mouth.”
“What is it?” His words are barely comprehensible.
“It’s Tylenol. Now be a good boy and open up.” Something funny flashes in his eyes—or maybe I imagined it—but he obeys and opens his mouth. I shove the pills inside and bring the glass of water to his lips. “Drink.”
He takes a tiny sip, but I push the glass toward him again.
“More.”
“No.” He tries to turn away, but I grab his chin and move it toward me.
“Drink it.”
His nostrils flare, but he opens his mouth and lets me help him drink half the glass. “I really can’t drink anymore,” he says finally, breathing measuredly and deeply.
“Okay.” I stop pushing the glass and place it on the coffee table. “Do you know what you have?”
“What?”
“The fever. Do you know what you have? Is it the flu?”
“Not the flu. I don’t know.” His eyes shut again, and I can tell he’s coherent at this point.
I stand from the couch, run to his bedroom, and bring two pillows from his bed. Fluffing them up, I place them on the side of the couch, pushing his body down to lie on it. He helps me to move him but keeps his feet planted on the floor. I crouch in front of him, untie his shoes, and take them off. Then I lift his legs and pull them onto the couch. I swear they weigh a ton. He didn’t help me an ounce because he’s out like a light. I check the time on the clock on the wall and go to the kitchen. Ghost’s plate is empty.
“Hey, boy, come over here. I’ll feed you,” I call to Ghost as he sits by his dad’s side with his head on Mark’s stomach.
He looks at me, his eyes sad, and lets out a long whine.
“I know, baby, I know. But he will be better. Now, come here.” I pat my thigh. “C’mon.”
He whines again but comes to me with his head hung low, his tail between his legs.
I fill his plate with dry food, freshen his water, and go back to Mark.
He hasn’t changed his position, but his cheeks have become redder. I touch his forehead. It’s clammy and still hot. I take a seat on the floor by his side and wait. After a couple of minutes, Ghost comes from the kitchen to check on things. I let him outside for a few minutes, hoping he’ll let me know when he’s ready to come back inside. In the meantime, I go back to guard Mark’s side.
Ten more minutes, and I check his temperature. It hasn’t dropped at all. Wasn’t it supposed to work already? I open my phone to Google possible ways to reduce fever, pronto. Some websites suggest putting ice on his neck. I’ve never done it before, but I’ve never had a fever this high either. If it doesn’t work, I’m calling nine one one.
Willing to give anything a try at this point, I run to the kitchen when a loud ring stops me in my tracks. It’s not my phone. I head toward the sound to find Mark’s phone lit up. The name Rachel appears on the screen. Fuck. It must be his girlfriend I saw here the other night. Of course it’s her. She’s better equipped to take care of him. I take a deep breath and press accept.
“You motherfucker better have a valid reason for not responding to my messages. Did you go to the doctor like you promised?” A female voice barrels through the phone without greeting.
