Day 8 – Persistent Fever

The face of the nearly four thousand-year-old mummy probably looked better than how Moffitt imagined he looked at the moment. He was slumped against one of the shelves in the laboratory, trying to be patient as sweat rolled down his face. I've already been out for two days. I want to get back to work… damn this fever. It seemed the worst of his illness was over, but having lost his spleen back during the war, Moffitt was well-aware of the fact that his ability to fight infections was now limited. He was doomed to suffer a little longer than the average person, but at least it meant a little longer for his wife to pamper him with strong tea and cuddles. The only thing left in this particular round was the fever itself.

He lost count of how many times his fever had broken and flared up that day. Ever since he arrived at the University of Cambridge that morning, he was struggling to maintain the appearance to everyone, especially his father, that he was healthy and ready to return to the wonder of ancient treasures brought back from North Africa. His job was simple that day—analyze the garments and jewelry this mummy was wearing. The corpse was under glass, so Moffitt wouldn't have to actually touch it. Simple. He didn't want to admit that was all he wanted that day. Just keep going, and you'll get better, he told himself.

As he searched the room for a notepad and pen, Moffitt still felt like his brain was half-melted. He was quicker and more efficient than this. Heat and pain began to slowly throb in his head again. It was gentle at first, easily ignorable.

Right?

Moffitt kept on his quest for the notepad. I've been in this lab before. I know where they keep everything. He realized he was staring the correct drawer in the face, and pulled it open. There it is. He took out a notepad, plucked a pen from an old mug on the desk, and tested it on the paper. The pen was working better than he was at the moment. His skull felt like it was being crushed, and he lowered himself into a chair. He could feel the heat radiating from him as he touched his forehead. Not again. Dull aches spread slowly through his body. Every bone, joint, and organ felt like an epicenter for pain.

It could be a while until his fever broke again. Moffitt couldn't force himself to get up from the chair. Instead, he put his head in his arms, and rested them on the desk, hoping and praying the fever passed quickly. He found himself involuntarily moaning in pain and discomfort. Time passed, and the chills started. Violent shivers gripped him, and he slid out of the chair, curling up into a helpless ball under the desk. He wanted to cry out for help, but all that came out was indecipherable groaning.

It'll pass. It'll pass, he thought. No, now you need help. It's so bloody cold in here. No, it's your fever. The room is fine. You're not. Moffitt hugged himself tighter. How can I get warm when the wretched cold is coming from inside me?

Dull aches spread through him. Any hope of moving was quickly snatched away. He was stuck, and worst of all, he was alone. Alone with a four thousand-year-old pharaoh's mummy that he really hoped had been thoroughly inspected for curses.

The knocking on the door sounded far away. Whoever was there knocked a few more times, then opened the door. "Are you in here, Jack?" his father asked. It sounded like he was far across the room.

Moffitt weakly pushed the chair to get Nicholas's attention. Through the haze of his fever, Moffitt could see the somewhat restrained panic in his father's expression.

"Jack! What happened? Are you alright?" In spite of his age, Nicholas knelt down and carefully pulled Moffitt out from under the desk. "Can you hear me?"

"Want… Vanora…" Moffitt managed to groan.

Nicholas didn't hesitate to pick up the phone on the desk, making a quick call to get Vanora over. It would take a few minutes, given that she was in another building, but she eventually arrived, looking quite panicked herself.

"What's going on?" Vanora asked when she entered the room. "You said Jack was—" She looked down to see her husband lying on the floor of the lab, gripped in the throes of fever.

"He said he wanted you," Nicholas said.

"He told me this morning he was feeling better." Vanora knelt by Moffitt. "Clearly not."

"Should we bring him to the hospital?"

"I'll take him home first. I think that's all he needs. At least… I hope." She stroked Moffitt's hair while helping him stand. "Come on, love, let's get you home."

The movement of the car ride back home didn't do many favors for Moffitt, as his stomach decided it didn't appreciate being jostled around anymore. Vanora was soon trying to split her attention between driving and keeping her husband from throwing up in the car. Once they were parked in the driveway, Vanora ran around to the passenger side. "Okay, love, outside. No, no, no, Jack, outside, not your lap, love."

It was difficult to convince his body to actually listen, but Moffitt managed to stumble out of the car and nearly collapse by the grass. His stomach gave one hard clench, and sent its contents upward.

Vanora sighed a little while gently rubbing Moffitt's back. "You really had me thinking you were on the mend, love. Guess not."

He could hear her a little more clearly, but the only thing Moffitt could respond with was another round of retching.

Vanora waited for Moffitt to finish, then slowly helped him stand. "Alright. Easy does it, love. Hold onto me. Take it slow."

The walk up to the front door usually took under a minute. Today, it took several. Once they were both in the house, Moffitt felt compelled to collapse again, but Vanora held him up.

"Nope, not yet, love. Come on, let's get your coat and shoes off." Vanora continued trying to keep Moffitt standing while helping take his jacket off.

Dizziness struck Moffitt with the force of a freight train. "I… I-I can't stand… Vanora, p-please—"

"You're alright, Jack." Vanora hung up his jacket. "Okay, lean on me." She led him into the sitting room and lowered him to the couch, while touching his forehead. "Your fever's still high. Be honest—did you really think you felt well enough to go to work, or were you just saying that so you didn't have another day of lying around?"

"I… genuinely felt better for a few hours. Then I… I got to the university, and felt awful again," Moffitt said. "It's this bloody fever. It just… keeps coming back."

"Honest?"

"Honest, darling."

Vanora covered him with a blanket. "If you say so." She smiled at him, then kissed his hot forehead. "I'll go get a cold compress."

She returned a few minutes later with a washcloth and a bowl of cool water supplemented with a couple of ice cubes. The cloth was soaked and wrung out, then draped on Moffitt's forehead. The cold feeling seeped into his head, and he tried to relax, finally feeling a little more focused. His head still ached, and he could feel his fever rapidly heating the cloth, but he still felt better compared to a few minutes ago.

"Be honest, Jack, spending time here with me is preferable to looking at that creepy mummy," Vanora said. "I can't stand them."

"You have a point, darling, but I love my job."

"And I'm glad you do, but don't push yourself so hard. That's how stuff like this happens."

Smiling hurt, but Moffitt did it anyway. "Should I take that to mean you don't enjoy taking care of me?"

"Oh, I love taking care of you, but you scared me today when your father called and said you were lying on the floor of a lab. I was worried something truly dreadful happened." Vanora took the compress off and dipped it in the water. "Do you feel like you can eat?"

"I think it's too soon."

"Tea, then?"

"I'll give it a try. Ginger, please." Moffitt waited until Vanora left the room to try sitting up. That was difficult to do with the compress on his forehead, so he compromised and tried propping himself up with pillows.

Vanora returned with the tea. "Oh, Jack," she said with a sigh, watching him struggle with the pillows. "You know, my parents said I would make a good nurse. I didn't want to go through the schooling. Now—" she sat on the couch with Moffitt, "I can tell them I am one. Yours."

"You're not just my nurse, though."

"I know." Vanora moved closer to him, and kissed his cheek. "I'll do whatever it takes to make you feel better."

"Unfortunately, kisses haven't worked to bring down my fever."

"No, they haven't." She gently touched her nose to his. "I could try massaging your head like I did the last time you were sick."

"Oh, yes, please, Nurse," Moffitt purred. He set his tea on the coffee table, and managed to sit up. He winced with the effort, and let Vanora hug him. Fever be damned, the warmth of his wife's hugs was so comforting and cozy that he would accept it even in the blistering desert.

Instead of going right for his head, Vanora surprised him by slowly running the nail of her index finger up and down the back of his neck. The chill that suddenly run through him was delightful. "I see you only offer the most top-notch care," he whispered.

"For you, absolutely."

A droplet of sweat started running down his face. Whether the fever broke on its own or Vanora had helped it along, Moffitt hoped that this would be the last time. As the day went on, he found it was indeed the last time. Regardless of how the cycle finally broke, he would always credit his wife with it.