The phone was actively drilling a small hole through his skull and into his brain via the ear canal. At least, Terry assumed that was what was happening; opening his eyes to actually verify his suspicions only made the pain worse. He rasped his throat to clear it and groaned out “Pick up.” His voice was too mangled for his cell to understand him; he had to repeat the procedure three times before it finally connected the call.
“Terry? Where are you? Is something wrong? You haven’t picked up in two days!” His mother, her voice pressing him bodily into the memory foam mattress that usually comforted him but now felt so very prison-like.
“I’m fine,” he rasped, sounding anything but. “I just—I picked up a bit of a bug somewhere. Probably the office.”
“A bit of a bug? You sound horrible! You barely sound human! Have you been to the doctor?”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I got cough syrup—” he started before the jingle interrupted him. His head swam; it felt like the whole bed was moving. His stomach surged. If he had fed himself at any time in the last day, he’d have lost it. “I-I got that,” he finished when the syrup ad was done.
“A fat lot of good it’s doing you. Terry, don’t be such a stubborn fool! Listen to yourself! You need a doctor. I’ll be over to drive you up in an hour.”
“But I—” he started before the call disconnected with a tone of finality.