The Writer Grows Compassionate
I frowned and clicked my tongue when I recognized the chilling burn of fever underneath my palm.
“What now, Scooter?” I whined, and I looked around. I can’t possibly just walk into town, towing a sick stranger behind me—I’d be kicked out of the first pharmacy I’d step into!
Suddenly, I had an epiphany. I ran to my bathroom cabinet, and took the thermometer from the shelf hurriedly. I shuffled my way back to the living room.
My heart quailed at his breathing pattern. He sounded like he was going through a tumbler.
“Let’s hope for the best, Scooter,” I murmured, and carefully inserted the thermometer in his mouth.
Minutes later, there was a beeping tone, and I took it, just as cautiously.
I could feel the color drain from my face.
“38.8 Celsius,” I said, dragging a hand across my forehead. I turned to my cat, and he mewled at me.
“We have work to do.”