Sleep. Pain. Pain. Sleep. After a while it all became a blur.

Didn't wake up again until well into the evening. I had no idea what day it was and by then I was beyond caring. Greg brought me a bowl of cereal and more painkillers. Three minutes after the bowl was taken away I was out like a broken light.

Woke up to a nice warm day, more back pain, and the wonderful discovery that the blistering rash had turned into one gigantic oozing mess. Disgusted, I pulled down my shirt and called for Greg.

"Hey there." He smiled from the doorway. "Feeling any better?"

"A little," I croaked, and it was the truth. I felt only half-dead instead of almost dead.

"How about some breakfast?"

"Sure."

"I'll see what I can find," he said, and came back with a plate of peanut butter toast balanced on a glass of milk.

"How's the rash?" Greg asked as he settled into his spot at the edge of the bed.

"You don't want to know," I frowned, washing down some more painkillers and the anti-viral before eating.

"Yes, I do."

"Please, not while I'm eating."

My appetite was returning. The toast and milk tasted good. Greg looked pleased as I drained my glass.

"You want anymore?" he asked as I handed him the dishes.

"No thanks. What I really want are some clean clothes and a shower." A look of concern clouded his face. "I gotta stand up sooner or later," I said as he scowled. "Five minutes to wash off the layer of grime and wash my hair. Seven minutes tops."

"Okay." My friend took the dishes and got me some clean clothes while I stumbled to the bathroom. Having enough painkillers in my system to knock out a horse made this trip a hell of a lot easier than my earlier escapade to the kitchen.

In the mirror I looked pale and drawn. I hadn't shaved in three days and my beard was starting to look like Greg's. I chuckled at the thought. The beard could wait, shaving wasn't exactly at the top of my priority list.

The shower felt great, and I was able to throw in a quick brushing of my teeth before all the standing up took its toll. At least I was able to get dressed before my back seized up and I had to call Greg to help me back to bed.

"Hold it," he said before throwing the blankets back over. He lifted up my shirt and eyeballed the mass of blisters. "Jesus Christ."

"Thanks," I muttered, swatting his hand away and grabbing the covers.

"You need anything?" His fingers brushed across my cheek and neck.

"No."

"Okay. Try not to need anything during General Hospital, huh?"

"All right." I had done nothing but sleep for two days and the shower was still exhausting. He left the room. I rolled over and pretty much passed out.

Awake again. Still light outside. I was sick of the bed.

I heard "Jimmy, what is it?" as I staggered out of the spare bedroom.

"Nothing," I replied, shuffling to the sofa and collapsing on it. "Can I get a pillow and blanket?"

Greg grumbled a bit, however, I was soon curled up with him.

"What day is it?" I asked.

"Tuesday."

"What's on Tuesdays?"

"Nothing," he said dryly. It was still early enough that those damn soap operas were still on. "You shouldn't be up."

"I'm not up. I'm laying down."

"You know what I mean." If he was really mad that didn't stop him from putting his arm around me and clasping my hand.

"Since when did you care about a patient, Greg?"

"You're not my patient, Jimmy."

"What am I?"

Silence for a few beats, then he told me, "When I saw you in the kitchen, white as a sheet and sweating bullets, I knew you were suffering. You were in terrible pain and suffering. I never want to see you like that again. This whole experience should leave you with just a memory, that's all."

I was quiet and watched the soaps. He never let go of my hand.