Page 80 of Worst in Show

Bad cold I think, she responds. I talked to him at lunch and he sounds awful.

Okay. That calms me somewhat. At least he’s not dead with Tilly chewing on his bones over there.

I lock up for the day at five and send him another text: Let me know if I can pick up some meds. My fingers hover above the screen for a moment before I add, And let me know you’re okay.

I find it hard to focus on my sewing that evening. My gaze constantly goes to the dark windows of his apartment, wondering, worrying. Why isn’t he texting back? Maybe something really has happened. Lunch is now almost twelve hours ago, and pondering it further, I’m not at all sure Jaz’s assessment was even right.

I reach for my phone again. Sorry to keep texting, but I’m a little worried. Okay medium worried. So here’s the deal, if I don’t hear back from you by 10 am, I’m calling the police. Or the aunts.

I jump into a straighter position when, finally, the moving dots appear. He’s alive!

I’m here. Sick and gross. I’ve basically been sleeping since yesterday afternoon.

I let out a breath. Impressive. Sorry you’re so sick, but at least you’re not kidnapped or lying in a pool of blood somewhere.

That’s where your mind went?

I send back a shrug emoji.

I’ll be fine, he types. Fluids and rest, right? You’ll have to train alone tomorrow, though. Sorry. Say hi to the aunts from me.

I suppress the disappointment and refocus—more training is always more training. It might give me another leg up. At least that’s what I’m supposed to think.

Will do. Get some more rest and I’ll check in tomorrow. Keep your phone on! G’nite.

G’nite, he types. And thank you for worrying about me.

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I turn my phone off. With any luck, he won’t remember my excessive concern tomorrow.

Cholula is unhappy. She does what I ask of her at training but with more frequent evil glares than usual. She weaves through the cones and then looks at me over her shoulder in disgust. She comes when I call but at a petulant pace that would impress no one. Look at me obeying your stupid commands, she seems to say. And I kind of agree. It does feel stupid today.

“I’m sorry Tilly isn’t here, too,” I say. “Now, let’s show this tunnel who’s boss.”

We cut our session short after ten successful tunnel runs, two of which came directly following a cone weave. She’s definitely getting better. My ugly little dog is a genius who’s going to save us all.

Diane brings me a container of chicken soup to take home to Leo, and she confirms my assessment. “I was watching from the window,” she says. “Cho is a smart dog.”

For the first time since we arrived, Cho looks alert. Sometimes she scares me a little.

It’s almost eight when I get back, so I head across the street as soon as I’ve cleaned and fed the dogs. There’s TV noise coming from Leo’s apartment, which is encouraging, but I knock hard in case he’s sleeping again. Instantly, Tilly starts whining inside, followed by a raspy voice telling her to go lie down.

“Hold on,” the voice says next.

The door opens, and there’s a disheveled Leo in pajamas and with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. When he sees me, he glances down as if to double-check he is, in fact, wearing pants. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I hold up the soup and his jacket. “I come bearing gifts. Can I come in?”

“Um…” The temperature has dropped, and a shiver rattles his shoulders. “You’re not worried about getting sick?”

“Eh.” I shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to kiss you.”

He startles, but then a first sign of life materializes. “Pity. I guess I’ll settle for your company then.” He opens the door wider and shuffles back to the couch.

Me and my brainless mouth. “So, how are you feeling?”

He runs a hand through his hair which doesn’t help one bit. “Well, let’s see. I’m going through half a box of tissues an hour and Olympic amounts of decongestant. My body aches, and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a zester. So pretty good, I’d say.”

“At least the virus didn’t impair your sense of humor. That’s always something.” I gesture to the food. “Diane made chicken soup. Do you want me to heat some up?” Maybe the answer to moving forward is to pretend the online stuff never happened.

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