The Writer Finds A Fever
I sighed, taking a look at the phone. I set it back down on its base, shrugging off the fact that Emma might not call back for a long time.
I sat down at the table, and grabbed my pen again. Scooter leapt up to the table, by now having learned that he should not use his claws on the antique ebony table.
I just finished talking to Emma; she’s just as energetic as always. Nothing ever seems to diminish her good spirits. Ems has always told me that I’m a lonely type of person.
One day, I hope to prove her wrong.
I dropped my pen when the guy on the couch groaned and turned over in his sleep. His eyes cracked open briefly, and I saw that they were blue. A really light, electrical blue.
I froze in my spot for a while, but relaxed when I saw that he had fallen asleep again.
An idea presented itself in my head. Inching closer, I put a tentative hand on his forehead.
“Why didn’t I check for fever?” I asked Scooter, and the mottled cat gave me a head tilt.
“Oh, you’re a huge help.”