Fever
It had been a week after the last trade that the fever had started. Low-grade at first, the doc had said it was probably just lack of sleep. Not one to be held back by a little fever, Milo had persisted in trying to get the articles he'd collected to take the shape of a newspaper. It only really became a problem when he'd started having trouble standing long enough to finish a page run, and the fevered sweat started blurring his vision.
The printer had never been so itchy before, either, even counting the time he'd touched those prickly cactus things in Paradiso. It felt like his skin itself was on fire. When the ink on the last page of the paper was dry, he fell into his bunk, letting the world become a kaleidoscope of colors and noises. Dreams faded in and out, some too lucid and real-feeling for comfort, mental fabrications mixed in with memories. Somewhere in between fever dreams he managed a sip of water and saw that someone had put flowers by his bed. He idly wondered if it had been that pleasant lady from last trade... was she Full Dead? He didn't know, but she'd made him tea, and it had been wonderful. She'd had a basket full of flowers with her, and as his memory danced around the colors and shapes of them all, he wondered if she'd want to talk to him again about gardening, he'd liked that. The colors began to spin and he dragged himself towards the edge of the bed and the waiting bucket.
There was no way he'd be functional for the upcoming Trade Meet. Whatever he'd caught wasn't letting him go anytime soon. Ezra's voice floated in from somewhere above his head, sounding like he came from underwater as he said something about the TV Guide, but Milo could only weakly point to the stack of papers. The doc had said sleep. Yea. Sleep sounded wonderful... He'd figure it out in the morning. Maybe.
