In the taxi, with the window down, Asher Harrington leaned on the window, looking outside.
"Asher."
He was lost in thought.
Selena Flores tugged at his clothes, "Asher."
He turned around, "Hmm?"
"What's wrong? Are you still feeling unwell?"
Ever since they left the hospital, he had barely spoken. Selena reached out to touch his forehead. There was no fever.
No sooner had she withdrawn her hand than Asher stretched his neck to press it against her palm again.
He asked, "Is it hot?"
"It's not hot."
He looked at her intently, "Feel it again, more carefully."
Selena's hand remained still, resting on his forehead, as she carefully assessed the temperature beneath her palm.
He asked again, "Is it hot?"
"It's not hot," Selena confirmed. "The fever has gone down."
"Oh."
His forehead wasn't hot, but Asher felt a burning in his neck. He turned to look out of the window again, continuing to ponder life.
