Roger curled up on the bed as Miss Ginny tidied up the room as usual. Something inside him was making it hard to stay awake. He watched as she dusted the corners of the ceiling with that silly feather thing she always cleaned with. Roger longed to touch it again someday. He'd been caught running his bony fingers through the black feathers once; Miss Ginny didn't scold him for it, only informed him that it wasn't clean and was probably full of dust which would make him sneeze. The desire to just hold one of those things (which he didn't know the name for) and play with its softness got to him every time she brought the thing out.

Something felt like it dropped in the pit of his stomach. His head swooned. Roger let out a whimpery-moan to get his nurse's attention. He still wasn't good with words yet. She ran to his side, stroking his face lovingly. "What's the matter, my love?" she asked. He put a hand on his stomach. "Ow…" he murmured as he squeezed his eyes shut. She pushed his shirt up a bit and felt his skinny stomach. "It hurts?" she inquired.

"A lot,"

"When did it start hurting, darling?"

"When I woke up. Just got bad now."

"Do you feel like you're going to throw up?"

"Yes…"

Miss Ginny eased him out of his balled-up stance. She tucked him under the covers of his bed. "I'll get the thermometer so we can see if you're running a fever." she told him. Roger groaned in pain. She removed the glass trinket from the cabinet and put it under his tongue. He closed his lips. She counted on her wristwatch the appropriate amount of time to get it to read accurately. When she withdrew it, she let out a slight tsk. "You're definitely fighting something." she commented.

Roger closed his eyes droopily. He felt awful. Miss Ginny poured out a spoonful of some new medicine which smelled strongly of artificial cherry. Roger would've refused, except for the fact that he felt so weak and just wanted to get better. He accepted the nasty stuff, although tempted to spit it out in a big red spray to cover the harsh white walls, bed, floor. But he didn't. And he didn't know why. Miss Ginny gave him a second spoonful to reduce the pain next. He also had to swallow a pill. She instructed him to stay in bed while she went and got him a washcloth and some supplies to doctor him up.

Roger patiently awaited her return, holding his sore tummy which looked more like he was hugging himself. When she reentered the room, she had a whole cart full of supplies: a bowl (in case he started throwing up and couldn't make it down the hall to the bathroom), a warm, dampened washcloth to be placed gently across his forehead, a glass of some bubbling soda for easing his upset stomach, and then finally…the thing. Roger's eyes widened a little when he saw it resting there. His jaw dropped when she handed it to him. "This one's clean; brand-new, no germs. I figured they wouldn't mind if I took it so you could have something to play with. After all, I still believe that you're a child. And children should have toys no matter where they happen to be. So for now, this was the best I could do for you, baby." she explained.

Roger ran his pale fingers through the soft feathers of the thing. This one was even softer than the one Miss Ginny used to clean. Probably because it was new, he figured. The soft wispies tickled his cheeks as he brushed his face with it, absorbing it's beautiful silkiness. "T-Thank you…" he whispered. Miss Ginny turned around. It was the first time he'd formed a sentence of gratitude on his own. It wasn't an answer to a previously asked question, or a hand signal, or a savage sound. It was thankfulness. Expressed from his very own mind, his heart. She went to him and kissed the top of his head. "You're welcome," she mouthed, choked with tears at this extremely progressive moment. Roger kept running his fingers through the thing adoringly.

After a very long time of silence (Miss Ginny reading a book in the room, Roger playing with the thing), she checked his temperature again. As she waited for the mercury to move, she chuckled. "Look at my little one; amused by a feather-duster." Roger swiftly turned his head to look at her, eyes wide. He pointed at it questioningly. "Yes, the feather-duster." she said. "Did you not know its name?" He shook his head. This actually caused her to laugh. "Goodness, you should've asked! What were you calling it to yourself all this time?"

"…The thing,"

Miss Ginny wiped tears from the corners of her eyes as she laughed so hard. "The thing?" she repeated. Roger broke a small smile. He didn't laugh like she did, or chuckle, but he did smile at her. He continued petting the thing. He decided he'd keep calling it that - it was easier to remember. Miss Ginny picked up its wooden handle and made it tickle his face, causing him to grin wider. He took the handle next and tried to tickle her face playfully. This was good, this was all good. He was interacting. He was copying another human's actions. He was mimicking normality. Miss Ginny kept accurate record of all this to write down later in his files.

Roger's temperature still proved to be a little on the high side, but the soda and medication eased his tummy. He felt a lot better. But he still wanted to stay in bed because the fever was wearing him down quite substantially. Miss Ginny spooned him more sleeping medicine and held his hand as she always did since he vocalized his desire to be watched until he fell asleep. As she left the sleeping little boy in his bed, she couldn't help but chuckle when she saw that he'd fallen asleep cuddling the feather-duster under his arm.