I hear a little laugh. She brushes my hair off my face before placing a damp washcloth over my forehead—she must have grabbed it from the bathroom. It feels wonderfully cool, and I hum my appreciation. ‘You’re not going anywhere, mister,’ she whispers. ‘Your only job today is to rest and get better. Okay?’ I frown, and the washcloth shifts. ‘But what about…’ ‘Nothing.’ She readjusts the washcloth and gently presses down on it with her hand. ‘Today we’re chilling. I’ll cancel the pub.’
