I arrived home from school that afternoon to find Bridget asleep on the couch, a mountain of tissues on the floor below her, a bowl of c soup on the coffee table and a rerun of Family Ties on TV, I felt her forehead, still fairly warm which indicated that the fever hadn't broken yet. I threw a warm blanket over her, cleaned up the tissues and emptied the bowl of soup into the garbage bin.
Dad was sitting in the dining room, newspaper spread out before him, and he looked up from it when he saw me enter the room. He looked completely run down too, colour drained from his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. I worried that he might be coming down with the flu, too, which could be much worse for him than for Bridget.
"I told you to steer clear of the snot monster," I say as I check his forehe
