Beverly got pneumonia. And not just the mild kind—the kind that knocked her out cold, leaving her pale and exhausted, her voice barely above a whisper when she actually spoke. The kind that had her burning up with fever one second and shaking from chills the next. She tried to brush it off at first, insisting it was just a bad cold, but by the third day, she could barely sit up in bed without looking like she’d run a marathon.

Mom nearly lost her mind when she found out how bad it was. She blamed herself for not noticing sooner, but really, it was my fault. I was the one who dunked her under, who kept her out there too long. The one who, apparently, forgot how basic human biology works and failed to consider that maybe prolonged exposure to cold water wasn’t a smart idea.

I should’ve known better. If I hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, maybe she wouldn’t have spent the next two weeks coughing like she had a pile of gravel in her chest.

She wouldn’t let me see her at first. Not even a glimpse.

“Blake, I swear, if you come in here, I’ll cough all over you,” she croaked through the door.

“Joke’s on you, I’ve had worse,” I shot back, lingering outside her room like a fool who didn’t know when to leave.

“I look like hell, Blake.”

Like I gave a damn what she looked like. I’d seen her face-plant into the dirt after trying to ride a skateboard for the first time.

I knew what she looked like in her less-than-perfect moments, and this? This was hardly her worst moment.

“You didn’t exactly look like an angel before,” I teased, hoping she could hear the smile in my voice, “so I don’t see the problem.”

A thud against the door. Probably a pillow. Or maybe she’d just given up and let her forehead hit the wood out of sheer exasperation. Hard to tell with her.

Regardless, I wasn’t going anywhere. She could fight me on this all she wanted, but logic was on my side. And logically, if someone was sick and feverish and potentially on the brink of death (dramatic? Maybe. But not impossible), then someone else should be there to make sure they don’t stop breathing in their sleep. Even though my mind throbbed with the need to study, I was too busy choosing Beverly over it to care.

I made excuses to check on her—dropped off soup, medicine, Gatorade. It didn’t matter that she barely touched any of it, or that she sent me away with a grumble or a weak wave of her hand.