“Nora,” he breathed, because it was worse than he expected. Puffy as all hell, red-rimmed, glassy. He had to get her out of here.

She jerked her head back and tugged down the hat. “It’s fine!” she said, bumping against the door. “It is.”

“You’re sick.”

She looked up at him, squinting against sunlight that wasn’t even that bright, as though it was a struggle to keep her eyes open, her head upright.

“It’s a cold. It’s fine,” she repeated.

“You have a fever.”

She reached a hand up, touched her neck. “I don’t. It’s hot out here.”

“Then why are you shivering?”

She stiffened, pushing her shoulders back from their hunched posture. “You’re imagining things. You work too much, that’s your problem. Probably you see sick people everywhere.”

“No. I see a sick person here. Right in front of my face.”

She sighed, but he thought maybe she didn’t expect that sigh to sound so weak. So . . . wheezing. He felt panicked, half-crazed, sweat dewing his back like he was staring down a full-on crisis. He couldn’t think of any of the usual things; he couldn’t think of thermometers or throat cultures or drug names or IV drips. He could only think of picking her up and carrying her upstairs. Of setting his hand against her overwarm brow, of telling her to lie back on a bed he’d arranged, of bringing her water and medicine and whisper-coaxing her to take it. Of staying and staying, until she was better again.

“Let me take you inside. Look you over.” He winced inwardly. Why didn’t he add a Dr. Taylor wink, to really creep her out? “Or I’ll take you somewhere. A doc-in-the-box, or wherever you want to go.”

She shook her head miserably, her shoulders sagging.

Baby, he wanted to say, which made no sense.

“Nora,” he said instead, injecting every ounce of sternness he could into her name.

She looked up at him, her swollen eyes even wetter than before. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t go anywhere with you.”

Her chin quivered, and his heart cracked.

“I think I’m allergic to the kittens,” she said, and then she burst into tears.