“You can take more medicine now,” Henry said, joining me in bed where I am currently melting into the mattress with Extreme Sickness.

“Oh good. Go get me some,” I mumbled, Kleenex plugging up both nostrils.

“What are your symptoms now?”

“Watery eyes. Major facial wetness. Like if you peel the flesh from my skull, duck sauce will come flooding out,” I answered matter-of-factly.

Henry’s head exploded into a brilliant puff of gyrating question marks.

“The only way I could ever find medicine for you is if you were the person who wrote the symptoms on the box.”

I guess I’m not getting new medicine.