I was sick for three days solid, with a fever and nausea and all over aches and pains. At one point I actually considered sleeping on the bathroom floor. In a way it seemed like a gift; I was actually feeling so miserable physically that I couldn't even think about the emotional pain I was feeling. Darry came to take my temperature and brought me aspirin every few hours but I never took it, just hid it in my drawer. I actually welcomed the sleep brought on by the fever, it meant I didn't have to think, didn't have to face the reality of my parents being gone. Ben came over once and talked to me through my window, because my brothers wouldn't let him in. They were all over me like a bad rash, pestering me every few hours trying to get me to eat, drink, sleep, take medicine, wake up, or whatever else they could think of. They basically drove me nuts.

On the second day, I heard the door open and opened my eyes.

"Hey Scooter?" That was Two-Bit's nickname for me.

"Don't come in. I'm toxic."

"Don't worry, baby, I can't relate to sick people anyway. Just sayin' hi. You get better, now."

"I'm working on it."

"Awright, well work hard then. See you soon."

"Bye Two-Bit."

I slept again.

By the end of the third day I was starting to feel better, which made Darry and Soda happy but just made me depressed. I no longer had an excuse to hide in my room, to shut out the world.

Darry sat at the side of my bed and looked at the thermometer. "No fever," he said. "I guess you're cured."

I didn't answer right away. "I guess so," I said.

"Wanna come eat with us?" Soda was just short of giddy to see me feeling better. He was practically bouncing on the bed. "I made dinner."

I looked up at him. Dinner prepared by Soda was hardly the proper negotiating tool to lure me out of bed after days of throwing up. I rubbed my forehead.

"How 'bout some soup?" Darry suggested. That didn't sound terrible, but I really didn't want to get out of bed just yet. Darry seemed to read my mind. "I'll bring it in for you, OK? You gotta try to eat something, Scout. You haven't eaten in three days."

"I'll try," I said. Darry went off into the kitchen to get it.

Soda sat on the bed and looked at me. "You really were sick, huh?"

I looked at him, dumbfounded. What, had he thought I was kidding?

"I mean, we thought maybe it was just the stress, the funeral and everything…"

"Uh, Soda, I don't think you can fake a fever. And I would never choose to throw up for two days if I could control it."

He considered that. "Yeah, well, I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thanks. What did you make for dinner anyway?"

Soda laughed.

"What?"

"Cereal. With milk. And banana slices." He smiled like he had whipped up a filet mignon.

I just shook my head. "You're crazy, Soda." I believed it, and so did he. It was a good kind of crazy though.