Page 47 of Ripped

His eyes are sunken in and his skin is pale with bright red splotches on his cheeks. His hair is soaked through with sweat and he’s shivering despite the thick covers he’s under. I reach for his forehead and I can feel the heat radiating off him before my hand even makes contact.

“Shit.”

Donnie stirs at my touch, groaning and grimacing, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“Donnie?” My heart races and my brain starts throwing out worst-case scenarios. Do I need to call for an ambulance and go with him to the hospital? What if it’s something more serious than a cold or the flu?

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I fumble for my phone and step on something wet. It looks like the clothes Donnie was wearing this morning, drenched and in a pile on the floor. What the—whatever. I’ll deal with it later.

I stare at my phone. What do I do? What do I do?

I pull up the phone number of the only person I can think of to call. “Come on, come on. Pick up, pick up.”

“Hello?”

“Mom, what do I do if someone has a fever?” I pace away from the bed, one hand tugging at my hair, the slight pain keeping me from spinning completely out of control.

“What? Who has a fever? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s not me.”

“Is it Miles? Wyatt?”

I drop into the winged back armchair by the window and lean forward to brace my elbows on my knees. “No, Mom, it’s not either of them,” I say, gritting my teeth. “You don’t know him, okay? Just tell me what to do when someone has a fever!”

“There’s no need to use that tone of voice with me, young man.”

“Mom!” I almost yell.

She huffs a sigh. “How high is his temperature?”

I rush back to Donnie’s side and press my hand to his forehead. “I don’t know. It’s high.”

I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “How high? Do you have a thermometer?”

“No, I don’t.” But maybe Donnie does. “Hold on, lemme see if I can find one.”

I throw open Donnie’s door and hesitate. Where do people keep thermometers? Bathrooms? I hurry down the hall to Donnie’s.

“Gimme a sec, I’m looking.” I set my phone down on the counter and start rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Razor, cologne, face wash, moisturizer. No thermometer.

“Come on, Donnie, where’s your thermometer? Where would you keep a thermometer?” I drop down to check the cabinet under the sink. In the corner is a white box with a big red cross on it. I toss out stacks of band-aids and gauze and wipes before I find the digital thermometer at the bottom. I press the on button—please work, please work—and the old-school digital display flickers to life. “Thank-fucking-god.”

I pick up the phone again. “Mom? I found it.”

“There’s no need to swear, Connor.”

“Oh my god, Mom, please.”

“Please, what? Go take his temperature.”

Donnie is in the exact same position I left him in, curled up on his side, face half buried in a pillow. I can’t just jab the thing into his mouth, can I? “He’s asleep. What do I do?”

“You can wake him up,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I cringe. “Are you sure? Shouldn’t I let him rest?”

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