Page 85 of The Man I Hate

“Anna? Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, answering almost immediately. “I’m here. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” I replied. “I think I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“Did I go to the hospital at some point?”

“No,” she replied. “You’ve been in your room all this time.”

“I have this weird recollection of a nurse taking my temperature with one of those electric thermometers. She was wearing a respirator and her hair was in a bun. She kind of. She reminded me of you.”

“I’ll be darned,” she said. “Probably just a weird dream.”

“Speaking of dreams, I’ve been having fucking nightmares. Jesus Christ. Talk about vivid.” I shook my head to clear it. “They were fucking awful.”

“Is it common for you to have nightmares?” she asked.

“Not at all. Hell, I rarely dream at all, and never have nightmares.”

She sighed. “I think nightmares are pretty common with a high fever. At least from what I’ve read.”

“I think my fever might be gone,” I said. “I don’t feel chills any longer.”

“You slept well last night,” she said. “Almost no coughing at all.”

“Before that?” I asked. “Was it bad?”

“It was just awful on the day before yesterday,” she replied. “Maybe the worst. It might have been three days ago, I don’t know. They’re all kind of squished together. Have you been drinking plenty of Gatorade?”

I glanced at the floor. “Apparently, I have.” I stared at the empty bottles that littered the floor in disbelief. “I must be going nuts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t remember buying this shit. The Gatorade. I have no idea where it came from.”

“You’re probably just confused,” she said. “I’m sure everything will come back to you sooner or later.”

“I hope so.”

“Do you have any body aches?”

“I feel like I’ve been in a week-long boxing match,” I replied. “My entire body aches, but not like before. It was so bad the other day that I was in tears. I think this is residual.”

“Good, maybe you’re on the downhill slope.”

I’d read about victims who had felt they were on the road to recovery, only to have their symptoms worsen a day or so later. I took a drink of Gatorade, wondering if I’d slip back onto the living hell I’d been in since the day the books arrived.

I took another drink. “I just remembered the books. We started reading the one about Christopher.”

“We did.”

I took another drink. I glanced around the room. Bits and pieces of memories came to me like snippets of a movie clip.

“Did you read to me?” I asked.

“I did.”