"I'm fine, I'm fine," he grunts, even as he slides an arm around her for support. He knows a good woman when he sees one.

Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, he exhales a groan, feeling as if whatever's making him sick has permeated every inch of his body. He rubs his face in his hands, palms cold and clammy, forehead damp and warm with a simmering fever.

"I ever tell you 'bout my buddy Fuckhead?"

This is half-mumbled into his hands as he massages his brow.