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The signs have been there for days, but there is no more denying it when Trinity wakes up with her head pounding and her throat on fire. Whatever virus she’s infected with finally has her in its clutches, malicious and vile and filling her sinuses up with muck. Everything hurts. She groans and rolls over, seeking out any cold patch on her pillow and sheets to ease the aching.
Her alarm goes off shortly after waking, and Trinity lets it blare for a long few minutes before finally slapping it off. There’s no world in which she makes it to work today. All she has to do is make the call and let someone know.
She lays there staring at her phone and picturing her head falling off her shoulders so the pain might stop.
A gentle knock at the door. She groans. Another knock. She groans louder, and the door clicks open.
“Hey,” Dennis murmurs, “we need to get going soon. You getting up?”
Trinity tries to swallow, but there is no saliva in her mouth and her throat is like sandpaper. She turns towards Dennis, eyes squinting against the light of the hallway.
“Nope, and you shoul- d keep your distance, because… whatever this is might kill- hm, kill us both,” she croaks.
And there it is, that classic Huckleberry sad mouse face, his expression melting into pained empathy. Trinity lets her eyes fall closed because they’re burning and her head is screaming from the light.
“Did you call in? I can let them know you’re sick. Hold on, I’ll go get you some water.” And he’s gone before Trinity can even process what he’s saying.
He remains gone for long enough that she starts to drift, hazy and floating away into her discomfort and into the fever. The creak of the door startles her back into alertness.
“Here,” Dennis whispers.
Her eyes track his movements, placing a glass of water with a straw on the nightstand. He has a bottle of Gatorade, too, a thermometer and a bottle of Tylenol. Trinity thinks of something snarky to say about his motherly behaviour, but no words leave her lips. He lays something cool over her forehead and puts something on the floor.
“In case you need to throw up,” he says. A bucket. “Um, I called Dana, so you’re all set. Here, we should check your fever.”
Trinity grumbles and winces away when he holds the thermometer up to her lips. She takes it from him and presses it under her tongue, but she lets him pull it out when it beeps.
“Okay, you do have a fever, but it’s not a bad one,” he says.
Trinity scowls, “Say that… to my face.”
“I did,” Dennis replies, “your eyes are closed. But, yeah, sorry, maybe I shouldn’t say it’s not bad.” Trinity makes a noise, something like, duh, and Dennis carries on, “Either way, you should take some Tylenol and drink a ton of water.”
“Uh-huh,” Trinity replies hoarsely. “Believe it or not, Huckleberry, I, too, am a doctor.”
“Ha, ha. Glad your sarcasm is still in tact. Here,” she feels a hand on her shoulder and opens her eyes, allowing Dennis to manuever her into a position resembling sitting up. “Take the Tylenol and I’ll get out of your hair.”
She tries to roll her eyes, but it pulls on her tight muscles and burning brain, so she simply huffs and accepts two of the pills, swallowing them with the given water. She chugs down the rest of the glass and pushes it back into Dennis’ hands.
“Happy?”
“Yes,” Dennis stands. “I’ll go refill this and then I have to go. Do you need anything else?”
“Yeah, if could steal some morphine for me that would be,” a hard cough interrupts her before she finishes, “be fantastic.”
“You got it, boss,” Dennis replies sarcastically.
Trinity snickers, then burrows into her sheets and adjusts the cold cloth on her forehead, willing the Tylenol to work its magic sooner rather than later. Dennis brings her a water refill and bids her goodbye, shutting the door on his way out.
And then she’s alone. Alone for a minimum of eleven hours with a body that is actively trying to rip itself apart, all because of a stupid virus.
Trinity curses everything; her body, her self, the existence of viral infections, all of the patients she won’t be seeing today, whoever infected her, and on and on and on.
She sleeps.
She wakes, chugs half of her water and takes a few sips of blue Gatorade, then curls back up without checking the time.
Later, she does check the time and considers the risk of taking another dose of Tylenol earlier than the bottle recommends. She goes back to sleep, and when she next wakes her stomach turns and she fights as hard as she can against the urge to throw up. Though the screen burns her eyes, Trinity shoots a text off to Dennis.
[trin santos] bring anti-nausea later pls.
After a short and fitful attempt at more sleep, her phone buzzes.
[huckleberry] okay. did you throw up? what’s your temp?
[trin santos] trying not to. dunno, i haven’t checked.
[huckleberry] it’s been a few hours, you should check. have you eaten?
Trinity moans, but rolls onto her side and grabs the thermometer off her nightstand, shoving it under her tongue. It beeps and she squints at the screen.
[trin santos] 38.2. no & i don’t want to eat right now.
[huckleberry] okay, that’s lower than before so that’s good. you should eat something later if you can.
[huckleberry] I’ll bring you some anti-nausea meds when I get home. I need to get back to work now. feel better.
[trin santos] k, thx mom.
[huckleberry] 🙄 you’re welcome.
Trinity drops her phone and covers her eyes, blocking out every ounce of light that she can. The cloth on her head has gone warm, so she takes it off and flings it somewhere in the room. She pops another Tylenol, finishes her water, and prays that her next sleep will last until Dennis gets home, without any vomiting.
She throws up twice, all liquid and half dissolved Tylenol, and forces herself to get up and empty the bucket both times. She pees and splashes her face with cold water, soaks a fresh cloth with it and gets back in bed. It’s 4:00 pm. If she’s lucky, Dennis will be back in just over two and a half hours. She replaces her regurgitated Tylenol with a new one and closes her eyes.
Dennis arrives at 7:30 pm. Late, but not as bad as some of the days they’ve had. Days full of blood and sobbing families and feet so sore they go numb. Days that flicker through Trinity’s mind like a gory highlight reel every time she finds herself going dark or vulnerable.
Trinity hears the front door open and waits impatiently for Dennis to come to her room. As if the anti-nausea meds will solve everything and whisk away all of her pain. Her stomach squeezes and she gags, covering her lips. Her mouth tastes sour.
Kill me, she thinks, kill me, kill me, end my suffering.
It’s facetious thinking, but a part of her is serious, insofar as she wishes she could leave her body or slip into a deep sleep until her immune system wins over the sickness and her symptoms fade away. She feels dazed and overfull.
A knock comes at the door. She grunts, mumbles something akin to, yeah, and the door opens.
“Hey,” Dennis says. He shuts the door behind him, preventing the bright light from flooding in. “Is it okay if I turn on your lamp?”
“‘Kay,” Trinity breathes.
There’s a click, followed by the warm amber hue of her bedside lamp. Trinity squints and blinks. It’s not as harsh as the hall light, and the pain in her head has eased just enough to not be exacerbated by it. She focuses on Dennis and sees that he’s carrying two bags. He squeezes them both onto her nightstand.
“I brought some stuff,” he says.
From one bag, he withdraws a box of anti-nausea meds. Trinity snatches them as he says, “They’re the drowsy kind,” then he continues to pull out items as she pops one of the pills.
There’s a box of cold medicine, a bag of lozenges, and a neti pot with a bottle of saline solution. He pulls out more Gatorade. There’s a few things left in the bag, but he sets it aside.
“There’s some tea and soup packets in there. I also got an actual ice pack,” he explains.
From the second bag, he pulls out a large styrofoam cup and a plastic wrapped spoon.
“I would’ve cooked some homemade, but I thought you might be too hungry to wait after having nothing all day. It’s chicken and veggies. Do you… want some?” he asks.
Trinity eyes the cup suspiciously, thinking over whether or not her stomach will be able to handle it. But she has been starting to feel peckish, somewhere underneath all of the nausea, and the salty warmth sounds so good to her fever-addled mind.
“Yeah, I’ll try some,” she says, pushing herself up slowly.
Dennis hands over the cup, tears open the packaging on the spoon, and gives her that, too. Trinity pulls off the lid and sets it aside. The smell stirs her hunger, herby and comforting. There are large chunks of chicken, potato, celery and carrot. It’s simple and mouth watering. She prays silently that she’ll be able to keep it down, then scoops up a bite.
Dennis waits at her side for a few moments as she works spoonful after spoonful into her mouth and hums. It soothes her aching throat and rests warmly in her angry stomach.
“Do you need anything else?” Dennis asks.
Trinity eyes him, stirring the soup.
“No,” she says, “thanks.”
Dennis gives her one of his signature white people smiles, lips pressed inward, then makes for the door. Trinity watches his back, a tension spreading through her knees and upper back.
“Wait,” she calls softly.
Dennis turns to her.
“Maybe just…” she hesitates, forcing the words to the tips of her teeth and the seam of her lips, then voicing them quietly, “Just stay. For a bit.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He never really does when she invites him in. He nods and comes back to her side. Trinity pats the spot next to her and he climbs over her legs, settling at her side.
“You could have just gone around,” she teases, scooping chicken and carrots into her mouth.
Dennis flushes like he truly didn’t think of that, but doesn’t say anything. They sit in silence. Trinity puts the lid back on her soup once it’s about half gone and sets it on the nightstand, washing it down with a sip of Gatorade and following that with more water. She rips open the box of cold medicine and the bag of lozenges and takes one of each, swishing the lozenge around her mouth and letting the menthol and honey coat her throat.
Another temperature check later, and she settles in for sleep.
“Put on some noise,” she mumbles.
Dennis taps at his phone, and Trinity drifts off to the sound of a home improvement show. In the morning, the space beside her is still warm, and she finds a plate of buttered toast on her nightstand.