With twelve days left until my departure, I fell ill.
I was awakened by the cold in the middle of that night. The bones all over my body ached as if I had been run over by a car, yet my forehead was terrifyingly hot. I fumbled in the dark for the thermometer from the nightstand. After a "beep," the screen displayed: 39.2 degrees Celsius.
Philip was sleeping soundly with his back to me, his breathing even and steady.
I propped myself up on the edge of the bed and accidentally knocked over the water glass on the nightstand. The glass smashed onto the carpet with a muffled thud, splashing water onto his slippers.
He frowned, rolled over, and looked at me with half-open eyes: "What's wrong? Not sleeping in the middle of the night."
"I have a fever." My voice was a bit hoarse. "39.2 degree
