KAIA
The next morning, I wake up more exhausted than usual—and freezing. It’s only the start of fall, so I shouldn’t feel this cold. I try to get up, but even that feels like a struggle.
A drop of water lands on my hand. Frowning, I glance up, half-expecting to see a leak in the ceiling. Nothing. When I look back down, I realize my hands are damp. My neck. My face. All wet. Not from a leak—from me.
But why? I’m not hot. I’m shivering. Then it hits me—I’m sweating, yet I’m freezing.
I try to push myself out of bed, but my body won’t cooperate.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Mom’s voice breaks through the haze. She hurries in from the doorway, just like she always does in the mornings before heading downstairs for coffee.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. My throat is raw, every word scraping painful
