The Fever House

I wake at 3:00 in the morning, with my legs aching all the way through, and sweat seeping damp and cold along my hairline. For two days and nights, gripped by a pitched fever, I have been captive in my own house, doing nothing more than sleeping in various places: my bed, Helen’s old bed, the sofa, the easy chairs, sprawled on the floor. My stomach churned rancid the whole time and my thoughts detached from reason. The talking heads on television even made sense when I managed ten minutes of that yesterday. The Fed is out of tools in the toolbox. Night before last, I woke to the sound of the boiler clicking to ignite in a far-away place, but once lighted, the boiler became a cat at my elbow. Later, I woke on the floor and thought I might be at a sleepover on summer grass.

I wake at 4:00 in the morning in my own room. My head throbs. My teeth hurt. The fever is breaking. I slowly begin to identify this reality—this is the one where my house remains fiercely quiet. I am the only person here. I force my eyes open to take measure of the room, the pastel walls, dark floor. Pale blue light blinks far off down the hall—my satellite link always alive, seeking contact. Soon enough, the blinking LED lights and my throbbing headache assume same tattoo.

--Mitchell Hegman