I awoke to the sound of whimpering and glanced at the clock. A little after midnight. I heard the whimper again and bounded out of bed like my ass was on fire. Carrie! She was probably afraid because she woke up in a strange room.

I sprinted down the hall and dashed into her room to find her curled up on her bed, her eyes open in the dim purple light from the lamp. “What’s wrong, baby? Did you get scared?”

She sniffled. “No, my nose is drippy, and I need a tissue.”

I went into her bathroom and grabbed a wad of toilet paper before going back into her room and sitting on the side of the bed.

She tried to sit up and started crying. “My back hurts, Daddy.” I picked her up easily and settled her in my lap, noticing the heat radiating off her tiny body. Jesus, what the fuck? Did kids turn into space heaters when they slept or something? I dabbed at her nose, and she blew it weakly.

Carrying her to my room and laying her gently on my bed, I turned on the bedside lamp. Holy fuck, her face is so flushed. “Tell me what’s wrong, baby. What hurts?”

Hot tears streamed down her face, and I kissed them away. God, she’s burning up. “My throat hurts really bad. And my back and arms and legs,” she croaked.

“Okay, I’ll be right back. I promise,” I said, kissing her hot little face. I dashed down the stairs, poured her a glass of Sprite with ice, and dug through the high cabinet where I kept my medicine. Tylenol… yes! I read the back of the bottle to see if I should cut one in half or something since she was so small. Do not use in children under age 12.

Fuck! What was I supposed to do now? Call Blaire!

She was going to think I was such a screw up. I couldn’t even take care of our daughter for one damned night. And hell, come to think of it, the kid was probably sick because I let her run around with a wet head. Epic fail!

I dialed her number, and she answered on the second ring, sounding groggy. “Axel Broxton, if you’re calling me for phone sex right now, I’m going to—”

“Carrie’s sick!” I blurted out.

I could hear her moving around hurriedly, her voice suddenly clear and alert. “Symptoms?”

“Sore throat. Her whole body hurts. Runny nose. And Jesus, Blaire. She’s fucking burning up with fever.”

“Shit. Probably the flu. It’s going around. Do you have a thermometer?”

“No,” I said miserably. “I suck so bad at this dad thing, Blaire. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t suck. I’m on my way. Will you be okay for about thirty minutes so I can stop at the pharmacy and pick up a prescription?”