Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T+

Spoilers: Few, though most strongly from episode "High Noon-ish." May contain spoilers for "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are." Also contains heavy spoilers for The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.

A/N: I am so glad to get this chapter behind me. I can finally stop singing this stupid song!


The Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu

The boy sat straight up in bed, shivering from a cold sweat. Next to him, Kenny stirred and turned over, but remained asleep. The boy was glad of that. The last thing he wanted was questions about what had startled him awake.

It was a dream, of course. Quite a vivid dream, wherein he found himself transformed in his bed to a giant insect. He'd finished The Metamorphosis before turning off the light to sleep, and it had clearly followed him into his dreams. That was strange, because he never dreamed. He didn't get nightmares from Salem's Lot or The Shining, which were intentionally far scarier than what Kafka had written, but apparently the little novella resonated just a little too personally.

And there was no happy ending for Gregor Samsa. Killed by either starvation or the festering wound on his back inflicted by his own father with, of all things, an apple, left there to rot. He died in his filthy room, alone and unloved, knowing that his family considered themselves trapped by him when the truth of the matter was he had always been trapped by them. He just shriveled up and died. One more meaningless dead bug.

And then, when things might have looked somewhat hopeful, for Grete at the least - out in the sunshine, free and happy - that brief little aside, that her parents now thought it would be a good time to look for a husband for her. Their "new dreams and good intentions." And Grete "stretched her young body." The boy was certain, Grete was the next to wake up one day unpleasantly transformed. Mother and Father had transferred their hopes and dreams from Gregor onto her, and they would trap her in a life she would never be allowed to make for herself. There would be no conservatory, no music, no hope.

Maybe it wasn't what Mr. Kafka had really intended to say, but to the boy, the whole story seemed to shout that family was a trap.

Geez, and somehow he had to write a report on this. For preference, one that didn't show just how closely he identified with the unfortunate protagonist.

He lay back and turned over onto his side, away from Kenny. He didn't know what time it was, but judging from the darkness of the hotel room it was pretty doggone early. He wasn't sure he could get back to sleep, but he was so weary. His chest hurt and it was kind of hard to breathe.

The sun slowly rose, lightening the dark room, and the boy got up, careful not to wake Kenny, and washed up as best he could from the washbowl near the door and dressed for the day. He tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and scribbled out a quick note for Kenny and went downstairs. It was even just a little bit too early for Hank, but there was no sense lying around wheezing.

He didn't go far. He sat in the hotel lobby bundled up in his coat, miserable and undoubtedly sick. Damn it. He'd managed to catch cold, or the flu, or something.

The boy did not realize that he had fallen asleep in the chair until he woke up, with Hank's hand pressed against his forehead.

"Binky, you're burnin' up. I think I should call your Mama," Hank said.

Instantly alarmed, the boy sat forward. "That's…really not necessary, Hank," he said. "In fact, it's downright ill-advised."

"Binky, you're sick. You should be home in bed."

"I'll be all right, Hank. It's just a few more hours 'til she comes for me, anyway."

Hank sighed and shook his head. "Okay, Binky, I suppose you're right. But you take it easy today."

"I will, Hank."

"Where's your buddy?"

"Probably still asleep. I don't think Kenny's an early riser by choice, and he had to get up early yesterday."

"You wanna wait for him, wake 'im up, or what?" Hank asked.

"I left him a note. Let him sleep."

There were rocking chairs set out in front of the Sheriff's Office; the boy and Hank often sat there to talk. Or not talk, as the case may be. The latter proved to be the case as they sat waiting for Kenny. They had to wait several hours, until the sun had risen nearly to the noon position, but that was no problem. It was nice, in fact.

Once Kenny was up, he seemed content to run around exploring Old Sonora on his own, for which the boy was grateful. He confessed to him that he was sick, and Kenny was appropriately sympathetic. The boy didn't particularly welcome sympathy, but from Kenny it was okay. He sat in his rocking chair, bundled up to the eyes almost in his coat despite the fact that the day was fairly warm, and watched as Kenny ran from the blacksmith's shop to the apothecary, and then into the general store from which he emerged carrying a stick of rock candy, a bag of root beer barrels, and a jaw harp. Kenny sat on the steps of the Sheriff's Office and ate the rock candy, then started teaching himself to play the jaw harp. He wasn't particularly musical with it but he did learn how to speak the alphabet through it fairly quickly, a weird sound.

The boy didn't feel much like eating, but Hank talked him into getting a buffalo burger at the saloon when Kenny did. The saloon girls clustered around them, cooing over Kenny's cornsilk blond hair, and the general consensus was that they were a couple of future heartbreakers. Kenny seemed to enjoy the attention.

Finally it was time to go home, and the boy couldn't help but feel grateful for it. Hank ruffled his hair and told him to get well soon, and he climbed in the back of the T-Bird with a weary sigh.

"What's wrong with you, Booker?" mother asked from the driver's seat.

"Just a little tired, is all," he said. Kenny reached past Lincoln's head and shoved at his shoulder.

"Tell her you're sick," he said.

"What's that?" she said.

"It's no big deal, Ma."

"You're sick?" she said.

"Just a little. I'll be fine."

She adjusted the rear view mirror to look at him in the backseat, saw that he was clearly more than a little bit sick, and muttered something under her breath that sounded like "Spartan." Coming from her, it could have been either admonition or admiration.

Kenny apparently heard it, because he groaned and shook his head vigorously.

She drove them home, and Kenny went back to his house. The boy watched his siblings as they played in the yard, but didn't join in with their games, even when Lincoln begged him to.

"Sorry, Link. Just not up to it today."

Grandma showed up, in her Beetle, and went inside the house to start cooking. Another hour passed, and just as Aunt Carolyn was pulling up in her El Camino, Lincoln made a break for the road. The boy shot off the front steps in high gear, and caught the little boy and pulled him back just as Aunt Carolyn opened the door of her car and climbed out.

"Land sakes, boy, what are you wheezing about?" she said, catching the rough note in his breath.

"Just feeling a little under the weather," he gasped out.

"Only a little? Because I've gotta say, you look like death."

He smiled weakly. "I'm okay, Aunt Carolyn."

"Uh huh," she said, clearly unconvinced, but she let it go for the moment.

The boy didn't particularly want his supper, but he ate, because to do otherwise would be to admit to just how sick he felt. Still, he couldn't eat with quite the same appetite as usual, and Aunt Carolyn clearly noticed. Finally, she broke her silence.

"Myrna, you need to take that boy to see a doctor," she said. "Tonight."

"It's Sunday. Doctors don't see patients on Sunday."

"The Emergency Room is always open."

"Emergency Room," mother scoffed. "Booker's not that sick."

"Yes he is. Myrna, he was wheezing like an old pipe organ outside, running after Lincoln. He might have pneumonia."

"Booker wouldn't get pneumonia."

"Anyone can get pneumonia," Carolyn insisted. "And anyone can die from it. Even if he didn't, it could ruin his health forever. Take him to the Emergency Room, Myrna."

"He does look like warmed-over shit," Gramma said, surprising everyone.

"All right, all right, we'll go after supper. I suppose I can count on you, Carolyn, to watch the other two while I do that? Because they'll never sit still in an ER waiting room."

"I'll watch 'em. Just get CJ to a doctor."

`Aunt Carolyn volunteered to do the dishes while mother took the boy to the hospital. An hour, a chest x-ray, and an inhaled steroid treatment later, the doctor pushed through the curtains separating the boy's bed from the other beds in the emergency ward.

"Well, I've got bad news. It's definitely the walking pneumonia," he said, putting a hand on the boy's head.

"And the boogie woogie flu?" the boy said, quietly, and the doctor laughed and ruffled his hair.

"The good news is, I don't think he needs to be admitted. I'm gonna give you a scrip for some antibiotics that he needs to get started on right away, and a note for his school - he needs to take the next week off. That'll take him into the winter holiday, so he'll have more time to rest and recuperate. Lots of bed rest, lots of fluids, not too much excitement. He should be fine by Christmas, or at least well enough to be up and about a little on that day. Don't push it, of course. And if his breathing starts giving him too much trouble at any point, bring him back in for another inhaler treatment."

They were discharged, after a bit more paperwork, and by the time they made it to the pharmacy it was late and they were closed.

"Damn. Well, we'll have to get your medicine tomorrow," mother said.

"But you have to work," the boy pointed out.

"No problem. I'll leave the scrip and some money in the kitchen and have your Gramma come over after work and get it filled for you."

"Gramma doesn't get off 'til five."

"Yeah, well, I go to work before the pharmacy opens, so it's the best we can do."

"If I'm going to be home all day, I can run the prescription in," the boy said.

Mother scoffed. "You're sick, you're going to be in bed. The pharmacy is six blocks away. You can't 'run it in.'"

"Six blocks isn't that far."

"It is when you've got pneumonia."

They went home and the boy went to bed. He had the bed to himself, because mother took Lincoln into her room so he wouldn't get sick and cost her another trip to Emergency. In the morning the boy got up long enough to fix Geena and Lincoln some Eggos and went back to bed, worrying incessantly about Geena's ability to safely walk Lincoln the four blocks to school on her own. Of course, Kenny would walk with them. That made him feel a bit better.

He lay there, feeling useless. He could get started on his book report, surely he could do that much, sick or not, but he was still reluctant to risk the baring of his soul. He tossed and turned for an hour or so after they left until, thoroughly disgusted with himself, he got up and dressed.

He was supposed to get started on the medicine right away. Waiting 'til five o'clock for Gramma to swing by didn't quite meet the doctor's orders. He'd walked to the pharmacy hundreds of times - it was the closest place to get an ice-cold Coke or a candy bar, the same distance, actually, as the nearest convenience store, but the cross-streets were quieter. What was there to think about?

The scrip was on the kitchen table, along with a twenty dollar bill. He grabbed both and stuffed the money in his pocket. He had his house key; he locked the door behind him when he left.

He was about four blocks down the street before he knew this was a bad idea. He could hardly breathe. It was easier to keep going than to go back: there were chairs at the pharmacy for people to sit while waiting for prescriptions and there'd be a bit of a wait anyway. He could rest there until he was ready for the walk back.

He felt somewhat ashamed of himself. He couldn't help it. But clearly, pneumonia was not like ordinary illness. A healthy boy like him could fight off a cold or the flu without much difficulty, but when pneumonia grabbed hold of you, it knocked you on your butt no matter how healthy you were otherwise. It was just…bad luck, essentially.

He made it to the pharmacy with a breath or two to spare, and handed in his prescription at the counter. The pharmacist gave him a curious look but said nothing more than, "It'll be about twenty minutes, son."

"That's fine," the boy said, and plopped down into one of the waiting chairs with relief. He had time to catch his breath before the pharmacist returned to the counter and gestured for him to come over.

He put the bottle of medicine into a small white paper bag and stapled it shut along with a page of warnings, notifications, instructions, and side effects. He told the boy how often to take the antibiotic and rattled off the price. The boy pulled the twenty from his pocket and laid it on the counter. The pharmacist made his change and handed it over.

"Thanks," the boy said, and stuffed it in his pocket. He left the pharmacy for the long walk home, hoping it would be a little easier going back than it was coming out. The sidewalks were in better repair on the homeward side of the street, one block east from the street he lived on, so maybe it would be. In places, the sidewalk on the other side of the street was just loose chunks of concrete, easy to stumble over. It was a wonder nobody had sued the city over it. The boy wondered how it had gotten so messed up. Looked like people had been taking jackhammers to it. That kind of destruction didn't make sense as naturally-occurring in the mild climate of Santa Barbara.

A mystery for the ages, evidently.

The boy pushed thoughts of sidewalks out of his head as he labored on his way home. He didn't get very far. A black and white police cruiser pulled up alongside him, and the officer rolled down his window.

"You mind telling me why you're not in school, there, young fella?" the officer said.

"I'm off for the week, Sir," the boy said. "I have pneumonia."

"Then what are you doing out walking around?"

The boy raised the little white bag he held. "I had to pick up my medicine, Sir."

The officer, a young man, and quite tall by the way his head brushed the cruiser's roof, turned more fully in his seat to face him, revealing the shiny brass nametag over his shirt pocket. "McNab," his tag read.

"You still shouldn't be out walking around. How far are you from home? Do you need a ride?"

Home was still the better part of five blocks away. Getting a lift in a police cruiser would be cool, but the boy was struck with an intense and doubtless perverse desire to finish what he'd started. He gestured vaguely in the direction of his house and said, "I just live over there, Sir. It's not much further."

True on a normal day. Today, with breath coming short? Definitely a lie. He was lying to a cop. He'd feel rotten about it later.

"Okay. Just…get on home and get to bed, okay kid? You look terrible."

"I will, Sir. Thank you."

The officer waved, rolled up his window, and drove away. The boy made sure he was out of sight before continuing on his way.

Despite the fact that he couldn't draw a deep breath, the boy made it home before he was very near collapse. He went to the kitchen, where he took the change out of his pocket and left it on the table, then got a glass of water from the sink and took it into the living room. He flipped on the TV, not caring, for the moment, what was on it, and opened the little white paper bag and pulled out the bottle of medicine. Printed on the white label of the orange bottle was his name, "Carlton Lassiter." It looked funny, printed out that way. Hank had said he'd grow into it, but he couldn't imagine ever going by it. He was CJ. That's what everybody called him. They probably always would.

He twisted the cap off and took his first pill, swallowing it down with a healthy gulp of tap water. He put the bottle and the glass on the table by the couch and threw the bag away in the kitchen garbage. Then he came back into the living room and flipped through the dial on the TV until he found something interesting.

What he found was a cooking show. A very tall, somewhat elderly lady with an…interesting voice, stirring something in a sauce pan. Learning how to cook seemed like a good idea, now that he was braving the stove on his own. He relocated to the couch and sat down to watch.

He wasn't likely to be making what she was making any time soon. He didn't know quite what it was - it had some Frenchy-sounding name - but it looked basically like pork chops. He'd have to wait until he could confidently cook a hamburger through before tackling meats that were more "touchy" like pork and chicken. Pink chicken was bad for you on general principles, and undercooked pork could give you trichinosis. He'd learned that much in school health classes.

The show was entertaining. The lady was funny - he couldn't quite determine whether or not she meant to be - and finished off the delicious-looking meal she'd created with a tall glass of beer, which didn't seem entirely ladylike but was kind of endearing nevertheless. The show ended and segued into another cooking show. This one featured a man as the chef, portly and somewhat elderly, dressed in a white and blue striped shirt with red suspenders on his pants and a black string tie at his neck. The title credited his name as "Justin Wilson," but when the man introduced himself, he pronounced it "Justeen Weelsohn." He had quite an accent.

This man clearly intended to be funny. Granted, it took a bit of listening for the boy to understand what he was saying, but as Mr. Wilson cooked he spun hilarious yarns of people and places that sounded incredibly exotic to the boy's ears. He wouldn't be making this meal any time soon, either - alligator tail and something called a "roux" - but it was certainly interesting. He watched cooking shows all the rest of the afternoon until he heard a knock on the front door. Glancing at the clock, he knew it had to be Geena, who didn't have a key.

"Coming," he called, and went to let them in. Kenny came inside with his siblings and dropped a note into the boy's hands.

"Homework assignments for the week. Mrs. Inman wants you to catch up over the holiday and have 'em ready to hand in when you come back at the end of the break."

"Thanks, Kenny."

"Lincoln's got a note, too," Geena said, in a sing-song voice that implied the little boy was in trouble.

Judging from the fact that the note was pinned to his shirt, he probably was. The boy sighed and unpinned the piece of paper. He read the brief epistle. Lincoln's teacher wanted to speak to a parent.

Uh oh.

The boy knelt down in front of his brother and looked him in the eye.

"Let me guess: you turned in your drawing today?" he said. Lincoln nodded solemnly. The boy sighed. "I should've guessed this would happen. Well, I'll just have to tell Mom when she gets home. She'll have to take time off work for this. She'll be pissed - er, she'll be mad."

"So what did you do all day?" Kenny asked him, as he stood up again.

"Watched some TV."

"Anything good?"

"Just some cooking shows."

"Dude, you couldn't find anything better than that? No cartoons?"

"Hey, it was interesting. I saw this old Cajun guy stew up a real alligator tail."

"Yuck," Geena said.

The boy grinned. "And then he told us how to cook a plank possum. He said you take a possum, put it on a plank, pop it into the oven for nine or ten hours, take the plank out of the oven, throw the possum away, and eat the plank. That's a good plank."

"What's a possum?" Lincoln asked.

"An ugly little critter that kind of looks like a big rat," the boy said. "Backwoods hill people eat 'em."

"Are we backwoods hill people?"

"No, Lincoln. Although I think we're closer than we should be."

"So we don't have to eat possum, do we?"

"No, Lincoln."

"Good. 'Cause I think I'd much rather have burgers."

"Well, I'd better get going," Kenny said. "I just wanted to drop off your homework…and ask you how you feel about missing the pageant?"

The boy groaned. "Oh, crap on a cracker!"

Kenny giggled. "They haven't decided who to replace you with, yet. Just think: it'll be someone else with their arm around Julie McCartney's shoulders."

The boy blushed. "It's no…big deal. I didn't want to be in the stupid pageant, anyway." A true statement, but the thought of someone else standing next to Julie…and her maybe complimenting his eyes or something about him…set his teeth on edge. He was too young to be this bothered, wasn't he? Girls were still supposed to be a hostile alien species, at least for a couple more years, right?

Right?


A/N: In my head cannon, McNab comes from a long line of men in blue. The "Officer McNab" CJ encounters here is his father.