Chapter 111

Chapter 111: The Fever, the Fiction, and the Family

Jon's Perspective

The morning began not with a whisper, but with a full-blown, cinematic crash—inside my skull.

I woke up feeling like my entire body had been run over by a very determined freight train that specialized in transporting regret, and mucus. My head pulsed with the intensity of a drum solo. My throat was raw, as if I'd spent the night screaming secrets into a gravel pit. My nose had completely given up on its dignity and was now auditioning for the role of "Most Leaky Faucet" in a plumbing horror movie.

Even my senses—normally fine-tuned to superhuman sharpness—were struggling. My sense of smell? Gone. My hearing? Muffled. My mental clarity? That had apparently packed a suitcase and fled the country. It felt like someone had lovingly wrapped my brain in three layers of bubble wrap and whispered, "Shh, no thinking today."

I was, without a doubt, undeniably, painfully sick.

"Definitely sick," I croaked, collapsing back onto my bed like a tragic Victorian heroine. I barely managed to call the school before the phone slipped from my hand. My thumb hovered over the hang-up button like I was sending my last message from a stranded spaceship.

Roughly five minutes later—just as I'd buried myself in blankets and was contemplating how it would feel to turn into a piece of furniture—Gloria entered. And by "entered," I mean she burst into the room with all the theatrical flair of a telenovela nurse who'd just learned her long-lost twin was actually a villain with amnesia.

"My poor baby," she gasped with a hand fluttering to her heart, then dramatically pressed the back of her other hand to my forehead like she was checking for signs of possession. "You are burning up!"

"I think it's just a cold," I rasped, barely able to lift my head.

Gloria's eyes narrowed into tiny slits of suspicion. "That is exactly what they said about my cousin Armando... before he lost his sense of smell for three years. Three years, Jon. He still can't eat blue cheese without crying."

Before I could defend myself—or explain that I was 87% sure Armando's problem had more to do with expired yogurt than a simple cold—Gloria had already stormed out of the room. She moved with the determination of someone going to war.

One Hour Later

When she returned, Gloria came bearing offerings of what could only be described as ancient, possibly magical, culinary artifacts. One was a steaming bowl of soup. The other was a mug that looked completely innocent but smelled like someone had brewed a pine tree, added mint, and then whispered a curse into it.

"This," she announced, placing the bowl in front of me with the reverence of a temple priestess, "is my abuela's chicken and cilantro healing soup. Passed down through five generations of stubborn women and one confused uncle."

She held up the mug next, her eyes sparkling with mystery. "And this... is a tea made with eucalyptus, fresh mint, and an herb I cannot pronounce. I had to special order it from a man behind a curtain who may or may not have also sold me a lucky coin."

I eyed the mug with a healthy amount of fear.

"I love the soup," I said, after cautiously taking a sip. It was actually incredible. Warm, rich, and strangely energizing—like if comfort had a flavor.

"You must finish the tea," she added, folding her arms like a final boss in an RPG.

I took one sip.

"I think it just melted my esophagus," I whispered.

"Good!" she beamed. "That means it's working."

Meanwhile: Manny's Medical Madness

Just when I thought things couldn't get more surreal, Manny entered the scene.

Clipboard? Check. Borrowed stethoscope? Check. Lab coat that may have originally belonged to a Halloween costume? Double check.

"Jon," he said in his most serious voice, strolling into the room like a twelve year old Dr. House who'd binge-watched too many episodes of Grey's Anatomy, "based on your symptoms, I've narrowed it down to either viral bronchial pharyngitis… or, possibly, a mild case of Lupus overreaction. The science is inconclusive."

"Thanks, Doc," I groaned, as he sat beside me and pulled out what looked like a blood pressure cuff from another century. It creaked like it had ghosts in it.

"It's not entirely accurate," Manny admitted, tightening it around my arm with the delicacy of a medieval knight fitting armor, "but it's got great ambiance."

Then came phase two of his "treatment": literary therapy.

Apparently, Manny had decided that what I really needed—more than medicine, more than rest—was to be read Wuthering Heights aloud. With emotion.

"I believe this will stimulate your frontal cortex and induce good fever dreams," he explained.

By page five, I was desperate for another cup of Gloria's mysterious herb tea just to knock myself out.

Jay's Approach: Steak Therapy

At some point during lunch hours—around the time I was wondering whether I'd ever breathe through my nose again—Jay walked in like a culinary knight with a tray.

"Okay," he said, holding a plate like it was a treasure map, "you're pale, you're sweaty, and you've been horizontal all day. That means one thing: You need steak."

He placed a perfectly cooked steak in front of me with pride.

"Are we sure that's medically advisable?" I asked.

"Nope," Jay replied. "But it's delicious."

And honestly? He was right. One bite and I felt like a percentage of my soul had been restored. Maybe not a large percentage—let's say twenty, tops—but still. It was the first moment all day that I didn't feel like a damp tissue.

Evening – Recovery and Chaos

As the sky darkened and the house quieted down, I found myself feeling... marginally more human. I wasn't exactly ready to run laps around the block or write a memoir, but at least not ready to be buried in the backyard next to the spot where we tired to bury Gloria's cursed necklace.

Gloria came in one last time with another mug of tea—this one smelled like lavender, cinnamon, and maybe something haunted. Manny took one final blood pressure reading (the results were either "elevated" or "astral," depending on how you interpreted his notes), and Jay popped in to say something about making bacon for breakfast, which I took as a sacred promise.

Finally, Ghost, my faithful feline companion, leapt up onto the bed and curled beside me. He began to purr like a soft, rumbling engine, radiating warmth and calm. It was like having a personal heater made entirely of fluff and attitude.

And as I lay there—tired, achy, still coughing occasionally—I couldn't help but smile. For all their chaos, quirks, and wildly unlicensed medical advice, my weird little makeshift family had taken care of me.