She, whingeing. “My node id stuft. I can’d breafe. My hed hurds. I hab an icky cough an I feel horbidle.”
He comes and sits on the bed beside her, puts his hand on her forehead, then stuffs a thermomenter in her mouth. “Shhhh…” he says.
She removes the thermometer, coughs and complains, “I cand breafe.”
“I know,” he says gently. “Only one minute.” He puts the thermometer back in her mouth.
She valiantly tries to hold her breath.
Too much time has passed. She has to breathe. She has to. But she’s good and doesn’t. He frowns, reaches over and plucks the thermometer from her mouth.
She gasps for air and coughs. “Hayb,” she says when she’s able. “Wide ju do dat? It di’n’t beep yed, and I was hodden my breafs.”
“I know it didn’t beep,” he answers. “I forgot to turn it on.”
He pokes the thermometer back in her mouth. “Hush! It’s on now –,” he says, “–I think.”