The blankets are twisted around your legs and your head feels like it's full of wet sand. You don't remember falling asleep, but you remember insisting you were fine — even with a thermometer on the counter reading 103.4. Now it's dark, or maybe it's morning, and Matt's hand is cool against your forehead. His voice is low and unhurried, the way it gets when he's worried but won't say so. He's already here. He was probably here all along. You could tell him you're fine again. You've said it a hundred times before. But your body is heavy, the room is spinning just slightly, and Matt is looking at you like he already knows every word you're about to say.