Cloe stuck the digital thermometer in one of Alex’s ears: 101.7 degrees. Then in the other one: 102.4.
“Not!” Alex said, good-naturedly, as someone scrambled for a Kleenex. Two clear rivers migrated down his upper lip.
Adam had been sick for a while, too. No fever, but lots of “not.”
Cloe had been coughing for days. Her chest was so tight, she said, it felt like a vice. She convulsed with tight little explosions that didn’t break anything up, didn’t get anything out. Little underground nuclear tests. (more…)