“Chloe, you okay?” His hand is warm on my skin. “It sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

“I was.” I slowly sit up, head hurting even worse the second I open my eyes. The blinds aren’t drawn, Sam probably having forgotten, and the light coming in from the neighboring buildings is too harsh and way too bright. “Thanks for waking me up.”

“How are you feeling?” He sits up, sheet slipping down his body, revealing his muscular chest. His hair is messy, and knowing how well he’s been taking care of me, how much he worries and loves me, makes me a little emotional. “Any better?”

“Like I’m going to throw up again. I’m dizzy.”

He picks up the thermometer from the nightstand and checks my temp. I can tell by the look on his face my fever hasn’t gone down. “It’s time you go into the ER.”

“Okay,” I say, too worn to try and convince him I don’t need to go. And because I feel like death. I groan and bring my hand to my mouth. Sam picks up the trashcan from the floor and hands it to me. He put a clean trash bag in it, and it’s one of the scented kinds. The smell makes me feel even more nauseous and I get sick again.

Sam helps me get up and dressed and then to his car, muttering to himself the whole time that he should have taken me in sooner, though there’s no way I would have agreed to go before. Like many people, hospitals freak me out. I probably should have kept up with therapy after Mom died, because I get a flash of her in her final stages of cancer, bone-thin, hardly any hair, looking like a fraction of her former self. I remember being angry—so angry—at the doctors and nurses for not doing enough for her. It wasn’t until years later that Dad told me it was Mom’s decision to go on hospice. She didn’t want to live in pain, and she didn’t want us to have to live with her suffering.

I didn’t get it then. I wanted my mom in any way. Sick. Healthy. Happy. Sad. I just wanted her here. But I understand now, how she saw her death as a way to set us free. There was no way around the cancer taking her from us. And I wouldn’t want to suffer any longer than I had to either.

I haven’t been in this hospital since Mom died, and it’s been bought out by a big company and remodeled since then. The general layout is the same, just updated. Sam helps me sit and then signs me in, filling out paperwork for me since I can’t stop shaking. There are only two other people in here, and only a few minutes later, I’m called back. I must look as bad as I feel. I can tell Sam is having a hard time sitting back as my boyfriend and not taking charge as the doctor as the nurse assesses me.

Things move slower from there, but eventually I’m hooked to an IV, laid back on the bed with ice packs next to my head, and pain medication is on the way for my migraine. Sam stays by my side the whole time, running his fingers up and down my arm. I’m still shivering and get even colder when the IV fluids start pumping through my veins.

“Thank you,” I mumble, still hardly able to open my eyes.

“Of course, Chloe. I love you. And I know you’d do the same for me.”

“I would,” I tell him, struggling to keep my eyes open.

The moment I fall asleep, the nurse comes back in with a shot of something to help with my headache. She talks to Sam instead of me, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m half asleep or because she’s one of those people who automatically addresses the man in the room. I’ve had that happen to me many times.

Though, there’s also a good chance she knows who Sam is and knows he’s a doctor. Either way, I’m going to get some relief from this pounding headache and then I can go back home, crash into bed next to Sam, and pray I wake up feeling better so we can enjoy what’s left of the weekend before driving back to Chicago.

The nurse scans my hospital bracelet and starts talking to Sam and asking about Rory. It sounds like she used to work with her in the OR or something. It's hard to follow along with anything right now.

“You should start feeling some relief soon,” she tells me and gets another blanket from the cabinet behind above the sink. She checks my temperature before letting me have it, which I take as a sign it’s going down. “I’ll be back to check on you in just a few minutes.”

Sam scoots his chair back over to the side of the bed and helps me straighten out the blanket. I open my mouth to tell him thanks but suddenly feel weird. I’m light-headed. The room spins. I inhale but get no air.

“Sam,” I breathe, and it’s like my blood is suddenly itchy. The last thing I remember is Sam springing up from the chair. And then everything goes black.

“I’m fine.” I close my eyes, holding my phone up to my ear.

“If you were fine, would you have been admitted to the hospital?” Dad counters.

“Well, possibly but under false pretenses of me actually being sick so they can inject me with some sort of experimental drug that will turn me into a mutant super-solider.”

“It’s good to hear you joking, kid. Is Sam still there?”

“Yeah, he’s been here the whole time. He just went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat, but he’ll be back up soon.”

It’s nearing the evening, and Sam has to be exhausted. I had an allergic reaction to the pain medication, which made my heart rate drop dangerously low. I passed out and don’t remember anything other than feeling like my whole body was too heavy to move. Now I’m in a room, hooked up to IVs and wires. I’ll be here at least overnight for observation, and my flu test came back positive, and my symptoms are being treated.

My head isn’t pounding anymore, and the fever went down thanks to the IV fluids. I still feel pretty shitty, but I’m worlds different than how I felt when Sam first brought me in. He’s already called off work tomorrow, not wanting to leave me.

“Can you have him call me when he’s back in the room?” Dad asks. “I trust him to give me a report on my only daughter’s health more than I trust you.”

“Thanks,” I retort.

“And I need to thank him for making you go in and not trying to treat the migraine and dehydration with positive thoughts and lemon oil.”

“Thieves, Dad. It’s thieves oil that solves everything. Geez, get it right.” Dad laughs, and I yawn.

“You sound tired, honey, put the phone down and get some rest. Forward me Sam’s contact info and I’ll call him later.”

“Okay. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, Chloe.”

I send Dad a text with Sam’s number, and then let the phone drop onto my lap. All I want to do is sleep. Every time I get close to falling asleep someone comes in to check on me, or the blood pressure cuff on my arm inflates, startling me and waking me up. This time, I’m almost asleep when the nurse comes in to check on me.

“Looks like you have some visitors,” she says when she’s done fixing my IV line, which got a little twisted as I tried to get comfortable. I look past her and see Mrs. Harris and Mason standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” I say and raise my hand to push my hair back, forgetting about the IV line in my arm again. I must look like hell, and I hate that I’m embarrassed by it. I’m sick, and no one expects me to be put together. “You guys didn’t have to come.”