The hallway was pitch black until I felt around the wall for the light switch. Flicking it on, the hallway and stairs ahead of me were engulfed in bright, pure, white light when my phone vibrated from my pocket. Magellan's name showed up on the front screen before I unlocked it and saw that he wrote Upstairs on left. I toed off my tennis shoes before noticing the pile of shoes right by the door and ascended the stairs. I wondered what exactly was wrong with him, because we'd just seen each other the day before, and he seemed perfectly fine.

The upper floor of the house was painted in a neutral tan, and there was only one door on the left of the staircase that was slightly cracked open. "Tristan?"

A pathetic sounding moan came from the other side of the door after I slipped in. I really didn't know what to expect in his room. It took me a second to absorb how large the bedroom was, considering it was lit only by the bedside lamp. A repeat of the same moan came from underneath a lump of comforter on the left side of the bed. I dropped my purse on the floor, and walked over to the large pile that I was assuming Tristan was laying under.

"Hey," I called out softly, to the human-sized lump.

A few seconds later, there was movement underneath the covers as the portion closest to the head of the bed began moving around. Tristan's head peeked out from the top of the crisp, white sheets he was rolled in. His poor, beautiful face looked unnaturally pale and clammy. His eyes opened, and then he blinked until I could see that the green in them was dull and heavy, completely unlike the bright, sparkling green that I'd seen the handful of times before. A deep, painful sounding cough shook its way out of his chest.

"I'm sick, Kat," he groaned out, looking more ashen than he had a moment before. "I'm hot, but I have the chills and everything hurts."

I wasn't a doctor, but I knew those symptoms all too well. It sounded like the flu. Didn't I joke about giving him the flu a couple days before? I put my hand against his forehead, only to wince at the extreme heat pulsing under his skin. "Do you have a thermometer?" I asked him.

He closed his eyes and nodded, wiggling a hand out of the wrap of sheets he was in to point at the nightstand. Sure enough, there was a white oral thermometer resting on the edge. I asked him to open up his mouth before setting the timer and putting it under his tongue. I knew even without the little contraption that he was much too warm for it to be safe. I brushed my hand over his forehead and hair, only to touch sweat across the span of his face. "I feel horrible," he rasped out with a shiver.

The thermometer beeped a few moments later, and after slipping it out of his mouth, I frowned. It read 103.1, which was not good at all. "Tristan, how long have you had a fever?"

"A while."

I sighed. My mom died when I was eleven, and even though Frank, my dad, did his absolute best with me, I had to learn to take care of myself. There were dozens of times that I'd gotten sick and had stay home alone so he wouldn't miss work. We needed the money, and his job didn't count staying home with his sick kid eligible for paid sick time. Fortunately, I paid enough attention when my mom was still alive to know, for the most part, how to take care of myself and get over most illnesses without having to visit the doctor. "Does your throat hurt?"

Tristan closed his eyes and swallowed a few times. "No, I'm just thirsty."

"Let me see your throat," I demanded, just to make sure he didn't have crappy, white dots that would mean he had strep. Tristan made another grumbling noise before opening up his mouth. There was enough light from the lamp to see straight down the back of his mouth, which looked well enough. I couldn't help but notice that he didn't even have any fillings. I tapped his chin so he could close his mouth. "I think you might have the flu, okay? I can take you to the doctor if you want, or else I can probably help you feel better here. Whatever you want."