Marlowe
The fever set in hard by mid-morning, King's skin burning under my hand, his earlier lucid moments replaced by restless, disjointed murmuring that broke my heart a little more with every incoherent word.
"This is normal," Preacher told me, though the tightness in his own expression undercut the reassurance considerably. "Body's fighting the infection. Fever's the immune system doing its job. Doesn't mean anything's gone catastrophically wrong yet."
"Yet."
"I'm not going to lie to you and pretend this isn't serious, Finch — Marlowe. Whatever I call you now." He met my eyes, steady despite his own visible exhaustion. "It's serious. I'm doing everything I know how to do. Rest of it's up to him."
I stayed at his bedside through the following days in a haze of exhaustion and terror
