“You’re not sick, are you?” I ask. “Impossible,” he says firmly. “I’m never sick.” Unconvinced, I lean over and press my hand to his forehead—and almost gasp. His skin is burning. “You—you’re really hot.” Instead of reacting with fear or alarm, like any ordinary person would, the corner of Caz’s mouth tugs up. “You just noticed?” I pull back with a scowl. “Don’t be conceited. I obviously meant your temperature; it’s way too hot to be normal.”
