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I had never been a unusually sickly child, nor had I been a particularly robust one. I fell prey to the same seasonal ailments as all my primary-school cohorts: colds in the head and chest, flus, the odd fit of croup or bronchitis. Such maladies lessened with age, as they tend to do, and I spent my adolescence in reasonably good health. But I soon found that Hampden's wet winter climate reacted rather unfortunately with my system, perhaps fine-tuned to dry California air. Some time in the anonymous, indistinguishable weeks before the winter break, a virus settled into my chest and stayed there, causing me to cough almost uncontrollably at night and wheeze during the day. As the days progressed, I tried my best to keep it to myself, dreading the dark looks Henry shot me when I lost control of it during classes and had to bury my face in the crook of my arm as my insatiable lungs spasmed in pursuit of air.
I must have had a fever, but if I noticed anything unusual, I chalked it up to an unusually aggressive heating system and the various open windows in buildings across campus. I dragged myself through my life, coughing and sniffling and speaking very little, remembering even less. Julian held me after class one day, concerned about my health. My answer must have been satisfactory, because he let me go again. And there was another incident where some —Francis, I believe— tried to offer me a coat, and Camilla wrapped a scarf of soft flannel around my neck.
At some point, I lost the ability to get out of bed. I just lay there in a haze, half-worried about tangling myself in Camilla's scarf and asphyxiating, half-worried about asphyxiating anyway because it was so hard to breathe. I kept falling asleep as I was trying to think, playing out the same thoughts over and over again. A doctor. I probably needed one. But the prospect of getting there, of subjecting my abused, feverish body to the sleet, of giving up my last few dollars to some cab driver, seemed too great a trial to bear. I wasn't even sure I could afford the ride back, and besides, I didn't want to move. Ever.
I'm really not sure how long I spent languishing in my bed, shivering under Francis' coat, coughing into Camilla's scarf. At some point, my door, which I must not have locked, flew open, and the spell was broken.
"Richard?" Charles loomed over me, his face distorted, barely recognizable. I blinked and he was Charles again, apple-cheeked from the cold, his face twisted in concern.
Somewhere behind him, Francis stood stiff, a scarecrow in all black. "Oh, dear. He looks like he needs an ambulance."
Charles softened a little. "Do you need an ambulance, Richard?"
I took a breath to answer and only managed to make myself cough. My hot, wet breaths exploded into Camilla's scarf, and my ribs ached. So did my head. "No," I managed weakly, at last.
"He sounds like he needs one," Francis said, peering at me over Charles' shoulder. "Feel his forehead."
I was too tired to protest, so I closed my eyes and let Charles do as he would. His hand felt like ice against my irritated skin. I managed not to cough on him, but I flinched hard, which made my head ache all the worse. Charles drew in a breath. "He's pretty hot."
I managed to claw myself into a seated position, squinting blearily at the pair of them. "Did you need something?"
"You haven't been to class in three days," Charles said. "Julian was about to send out a search party."
Three days? I glanced at my bedside table, where a textbook and an empty water glass stood. Three days. No wonder my mouth was so dry.
"Have you been to the doctor?" Francis asked, studying me closely, like an entomologist faced with a particularly intricate butterfly.
I thought about lying, but I didn't have the energy. "No."
"Really?" Charles looked me over, wincing. "Why not? That cough sounds terrible."
"Don't want to," I mumbled, trying not to cough now that he had drawn attention to it. "Can't afford it."
"The school has a health center," Charles said. I edged back down toward the mattress.
"Don't want to."
Francis sighed heavily. "He's delirious. I knew we shouldn't have listened to Henry."
I froze. "Henry?"
"It's nothing," Charles said quickly, shifting in a way that indicated he had kicked Francis in the ankle. "Only you made a point not to cough during class, so he thought you were trying to avoid a big fuss."
"As if Richard were capable of making a big fuss," Francis said, shaking his head.
"Well," Charles said, half-turning, "I don't think it's Richard he was worried about."
I closed my eyes. Silence stretched out, puncutated only by the floorboards creaking as one or both of them shifted their weight.
"I think we should get Henry," Francis whispered. "He's not doing well."
I thought about arguing, but the darkness was starting to take me again, the room rocking like there were waves under us.
"You get Henry," Charles whispered back. "I think someone should stay with him."
Darkness.
It didn't last. Henry's heavy footfalls rattled the shoddy furniture. Looking back, I don't know why he came. He knew very little about biology. If I didn't have leprosy, he probably had no idea what to do with me.
A big, solid hand landed on my forehead. I didn't flinch this time, drawn too deeply toward sleep. "He said he didn't want to go to the doctor?"
"Yes," Charles said earnestly.
"Well, and—" Francis started, but broke off. I twitched.
"Richard." Henry took his hand off my forehead. "When was the last time you had any water?"
I cracked my eyes open. Henry looked as impassive as usual, with only a slight forward tilt to his posture to indicate any sort of urgency. "I don't know."
"Charles?" Charles picked up the glass from my nightstand and disappeared.
I sighed, shifting slightly when Henry moved toward me. I'd have to sit up to drink.
We both knew it. He caught me behind the shoulders before I could properly withdraw, and hauled me up almost effortlessly. "I'm sorry for the fuss," Henry said gravely, as though he'd burst in and begun wailing over my supine form.
I started to laugh despite myself, and Henry looked grateful indeed when Charles came back with not only a glass, but a whole carafe of water.
"Where's Camilla?" I asked, half-worried that Henry was going to start dabbing my face and whispering sweet nothings to me.
Francis rolled his eyes. "Where do you think?" I had no answer, and Henry was tipping the glass to my lips, so he continued: "Keeping Bunny busy."
I nodded as much as I could manage without spilling water all down my chest. If I were feeling better, I could see how Bunny's lighthearted presence could have been a balm. But in my state, all I could think about was my headache, and the strident trumpeting of his voice, his laugh.
And in a few days, when I was up and out of bed, his jokes and laughter were a balm to us all. Within a few hours, it was as if nothing had ever happened, and there was no further concern about my health until the snow came.