on his forehead and a surgical mask covering half his face.
“Attractive,” I said, nodding to the cleaning woman on her way out of Gil’s room. (She seemed like she’d been looking for a reason to leave quickly.)
“I’m dying,” Gilley moaned.
I softened and came over to sit next to him. It was then that I saw the litter of candy wrappers and empty potato chip bags on his nightstand. Apparently, the cleaning woman had missed those. Or she just didn’t want to get that close to patient zero. “You’re not dying,” I said, lifting the washcloth and feeling his forehead. It was a little warm, but not as bad as the night before. “And your fever’s beginning to break.”
“I still have a headache,” Gil moaned. “Gilley Gilleshpie.”
“I see the headache hasn’t dampened your appetite,” I said, picking up the clutter on his nightstand.
“Feed a fever,” he told me.
“I believe that’s feed a cold, starve a fever.”
“There’s no way I’m going down hungry,” he told me, following that with a small fit of coughing.
I threw out the trash, heated up some water from the coffeepot, and poured him a cup of Theraflu. He took it and lifted the mask to slurp it down. While he drank, I eyed him worriedly. He finished the medicine and handed me back the cup, then settled his mask back in place and lay back on the pillows. I couldn’t tell if it was just the mask, or that Gil was developing a lung infection, but his breathing was definitely starting to sound like Darth Vader.
“Nice mask,” I said, after rinsing out his cup.
Gil rolled his eyes lazily to me. “Thanks.”
“Where’d you get it?” I didn’t think the hotel gift shop was the source.
“There’s a Korean couple staying next door,” he said. “I rode the elevator down with them and they gave it to me. They said I look like I have SARS.”
I wondered how quickly they’d also put one on themselves. “You don’t have SARS,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“You have the flu. That’s it. Just the plain old flu.”
“How do you know?” Gil pressed.
“Because Heath and I both got our flu shots before we all left for Europe and you said—what again?”
Gil narrowed his eyes at me, and said nothing. Not even “Gilley Gilleshpie,” so I answered the question for him. “You said that you didn’t need the flu shot because you never get sick.”
“The flu shot doesn’t protect against SARS, M. J.,” he grumbled.
“Exactly my point, Gil. If those businessmen at O’Hare had really been infected with SARS, we all would have gotten sick, but only you caught a bug, which means only you caught the flu .”
“Shuddup,” he snapped grumpily, rolling over so his back was to me.
I suddenly felt bad. “Hey,” I said after a few long seconds of stony silence. “I’m sorry, Gil. I didn’t mean to be a pain. It’s just been a long couple of days. Can I get you anything?”
“A new body,” he said, rolling back over to lie on his back again. “This one aches all over. And if you find a new body, make sure it’s got really good pecs.”
I grinned and moved to his side again. Taking up the washcloth from the nightstand, I wrung it out under cool water from the faucet and came back to put it on his head again. “I’ll come back in a little while and check on you,” I told him, but Gil was already asleep.
As I was leaving, Gil’s phone gave a chirp. I didn’t want it to wake him up, so I moved over to turn his phone on silent when I caught the text on the screen. It was from Gopher, our producer.
Network approved salaries. Tell M. J. and Heath that your paychecks have all been wired out. Still working on production funding. More later.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief, grateful for the news. Our funding had been pulled weeks before in Ireland, and since then, we’d had to float mostly on our savings. And the airfare to New Mexico from Ireland had put a serious dent in those, so this was really welcome
“Attractive,” I said, nodding to the cleaning woman on her way out of Gil’s room. (She seemed like she’d been looking for a reason to leave quickly.)
“I’m dying,” Gilley moaned.
I softened and came over to sit next to him. It was then that I saw the litter of candy wrappers and empty potato chip bags on his nightstand. Apparently, the cleaning woman had missed those. Or she just didn’t want to get that close to patient zero. “You’re not dying,” I said, lifting the washcloth and feeling his forehead. It was a little warm, but not as bad as the night before. “And your fever’s beginning to break.”
“I still have a headache,” Gil moaned. “Gilley Gilleshpie.”
“I see the headache hasn’t dampened your appetite,” I said, picking up the clutter on his nightstand.
“Feed a fever,” he told me.
“I believe that’s feed a cold, starve a fever.”
“There’s no way I’m going down hungry,” he told me, following that with a small fit of coughing.
I threw out the trash, heated up some water from the coffeepot, and poured him a cup of Theraflu. He took it and lifted the mask to slurp it down. While he drank, I eyed him worriedly. He finished the medicine and handed me back the cup, then settled his mask back in place and lay back on the pillows. I couldn’t tell if it was just the mask, or that Gil was developing a lung infection, but his breathing was definitely starting to sound like Darth Vader.
“Nice mask,” I said, after rinsing out his cup.
Gil rolled his eyes lazily to me. “Thanks.”
“Where’d you get it?” I didn’t think the hotel gift shop was the source.
“There’s a Korean couple staying next door,” he said. “I rode the elevator down with them and they gave it to me. They said I look like I have SARS.”
I wondered how quickly they’d also put one on themselves. “You don’t have SARS,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“You have the flu. That’s it. Just the plain old flu.”
“How do you know?” Gil pressed.
“Because Heath and I both got our flu shots before we all left for Europe and you said—what again?”
Gil narrowed his eyes at me, and said nothing. Not even “Gilley Gilleshpie,” so I answered the question for him. “You said that you didn’t need the flu shot because you never get sick.”
“The flu shot doesn’t protect against SARS, M. J.,” he grumbled.
“Exactly my point, Gil. If those businessmen at O’Hare had really been infected with SARS, we all would have gotten sick, but only you caught a bug, which means only you caught the flu .”
“Shuddup,” he snapped grumpily, rolling over so his back was to me.
I suddenly felt bad. “Hey,” I said after a few long seconds of stony silence. “I’m sorry, Gil. I didn’t mean to be a pain. It’s just been a long couple of days. Can I get you anything?”
“A new body,” he said, rolling back over to lie on his back again. “This one aches all over. And if you find a new body, make sure it’s got really good pecs.”
I grinned and moved to his side again. Taking up the washcloth from the nightstand, I wrung it out under cool water from the faucet and came back to put it on his head again. “I’ll come back in a little while and check on you,” I told him, but Gil was already asleep.
As I was leaving, Gil’s phone gave a chirp. I didn’t want it to wake him up, so I moved over to turn his phone on silent when I caught the text on the screen. It was from Gopher, our producer.
Network approved salaries. Tell M. J. and Heath that your paychecks have all been wired out. Still working on production funding. More later.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief, grateful for the news. Our funding had been pulled weeks before in Ireland, and since then, we’d had to float mostly on our savings. And the airfare to New Mexico from Ireland had put a serious dent in those, so this was really welcome
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