The first thing I felt was cold.
Not ordinary cold.
It was the kind that shocked every muscle in my body at once.
I opened my eyes with a gasp.
Water streamed from my hair.
My pajamas were soaked.
My sheets were drenched.
My chest tightened as another coughing fit tore through me.
Standing beside the bed was Margaret Whitmore.
My mother-in-law.
She held an empty plastic bucket in one hand.
Her face showed irritation instead of concern.
“If you can still breathe, you can get up and cook!”
I stared at her.
For several seconds, I couldn’t understand what had happened.
My head felt heavy.
My vision pulsed.
My skin burned beneath the freezing water.
The digital thermometer on my nightstand still showed 103.9.
I had checked it less than twenty minutes earlier.
“Margaret.”
My voice barely came out.
“I need a hospital.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You need discipline.”
I tried to sit upright.
The room tilted.
I grabbed the edge of the mattress.
“The whole family is downstairs and you’re lying up here playing queen!”
She pointed toward the bedroom door.
“Today is the memorial service for Adrian’s grandfather.
You need to prepare the roast, the sides, the platters, and feed over forty guests.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I had been sick since the previous evening.
At first, I thought it was a cold.
By midnight, I was shaking.
By dawn, my fever had climbed above 103.
My heart was racing even while I lay still.
I had begged Adrian to take me to the emergency room.
He had stood beside the bed already dressed for the memorial.
He placed two generic fever tablets on the nightstand.
“Just tough it out until tomorrow, Camille.”
I had stared at him.
“I can’t breathe properly.”
