Seven is so sick, it’s breaking my heart. His tall, limp form is wrapped in one of my blankets, wiggling softly and making sounds so quiet, you almost can’t hear him. I hate fevers. Because there’s little I can do except dab at his sweaty forehead with a damp cloth and whispering quiet reassurances, knowing full well he probably can’t hear me. Someone enters, and I lift my head, finding my beautiful girlfriend. She looks worried, and for good reason. I heard about 6. Hey, how’s 6?…
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