James has the plague.
Well, he has something. Lack of buboes would indicate that it might be a little premature calling it the plague, but I’m keeping an eye out anyway. He’s hacking and coughing a lot, running fever that wanders between 99 and 102, and generally feels like crap. I’ve got him drinking lots of water, keeping warm, taking Advil and taking it easy.
It’s unusual that he’s got something–the joke is that James is a dwarf and in addition to a barrel chest, beard, and ironclad work ethic, has inherited the dwarven immune system and gets various modifiers to resist disease, depending on what RPG system you like. About the only thing that makes him ill is the recycled air on planes, which can drop him like a rock, but other than that, he can work at an office in the height of flu season and come home whistling a merry tune in the “Heigh ho, heigh ho” genre. I do not have such an immune system, but I also work at home, so I never get sick either. Unfortunately, because James has it, I will undoubtedly get it in the next few days. Exciting!
I also will probably be sleeping on the couch tonight, because when he’s sick, James makes noises. Weirdass noises. Whimpers, moans, grunts, snorfles, whistles, sounds vaguely related to snores but of a different species–it’s like being next to the bear cage at the zoo at feeding time. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it, but it’s a bizarre cacophany.
‘Course, I may well do it in a day or two here soon, myself…
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