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My head pounded.

My eyelids felt like they were stuck to my eyeballs with masking tape.

I was trying to stay coherent by skimming through a collection of photographs I’d developed in the school’s dark room, the pictures blurry and distorted as I shuffled through the pile.

A plate of blueberries in the cafeteria. Kids laughing against their lockers. Our real-life mascot, Nibbles the Rabbit, munching on a carrot stick. The principal checking out my science teacher.

I should probably hide that one.

But the more I tried to focus, the more the images jumbled into fog. My brain was failing me. Everything was failing me.

Tara threw a pillow at my face. “Get up! It’s your birthday.”

Her voice was too loud. It sounded like she was screaming in my ear, but she was at least few feet away, given the trajectory of the pillow.

“Ugh.” I groaned, flopping backward and using the pillow as a tool to block out all sunlight. “Think I’m sick.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just trying to get out of going to the winter fling with Eric tomorrow.”

She could be right.

Maybe my body was deteriorating at the thought of awkward, mechanical slow-dancing with Eric Soloman, who was two inches shorter than me and came to school with a giant, face-eating pimple on his forehead yesterday.

My stomach curdled.

I honestly wasn’t sure if it was because of the memory of that pimple, or the flu.

“I’m actually sick, Tara. My bones are disintegrating and my brain is dribbling out of my ears.”

“Way too dramatic.”

“That’s what it feels like. I’m dying.” My voice was muffled by the pillow.

“You’re lying?”

“Dying,” I repeated, tossing the pillow back at her. My strength was that of a newborn baby, and the pillow hardly made it over the edge of the mattress. “I want soup.”

When my eyelids finally peeled open, one sandpaper eyeball at a time, I watched as Tara yanked a baggy sweater over her head and pulled a mound of shower-damp hair from the collar. “Damn, Hals. You do kind of look like my Grandpa Harry on the day of his funeral but with way better teeth. I’ll tell Mom to make you soup.”

I muttered something unintelligible.

Then I must’ve drifted off to sleep, because when I jolted awake again, Tara was gone and Whitney was sitting beside me on the bed, stroking back my hair. “Happy birthday, Halley.”

Unlike Tara’s booming voice, her mother’s voice sounded a million miles away. Soothing, peaceful, nurturing. I sunk into the comfort of her words and soft touch as I burrowed into the blankets, shivering with fever.

“I made you soup and brought you some fever reducer. You feel like you’re burning up.”

“Hmmph.”

“I’ll call you out of school today,” she said. “I have to leave for work…do you think you’ll be okay? Should I call in?”

No way.

She’d already sacrificed so much for me. Too much.

I forced myself to perk up, peeking over the edge of the blankets and smiling at her blurry, pretty face. “Go to work. It’s just a little cold.” My focus trailed to the bowl of steaming broth on the nightstand. “Thank you for the soup.”

“Of course. I’ll come by on my lunch break to check on you.”