Back in bed, Luke suffered from the wonderful delusions of dreamscapes when sick.
In one, he sat at a large banquet table. The long table held bowls of some sort of red soup (blood his mind told him).
The liquids rose from their bowls and seeped along the air in a stream, aiming for his open mouth, filling to the brim, and flowing inside his body.
His stomach surged over his shirt and coat, thickening his arms down to his legs. He continued to grow; his eyes picturing a blurry Cheshire cat grin, with multiple lenses and a white coat.
