George's fatherly intuition was spot on, what started with some sniffling developed fast into a fever and coughing.
"Drink just a little bit more," Cynthia said softly from behind her mask that she hated wearing and worrying her son for it but then she did it for her baby, she had a chair pulled next to her son's bed and was trying to feed him some warm soup.
A very tired-looking John shook his head heavily to the right and then to the left, his cheeks were very red, and he was breathing heavily.
George brought the thermometer with the laser pointer closer to his son's forehead once more and took his temperature. Cynthia bit her tongue; her husband wasn't even allowing the medicine enough time to work.
"It's not going down," he grumbled.
Cynthia was about to say something when the Butler stood next to the opened door of John's room, "Ms. Evans, Mr. Robinson, the pediatrician is here,"
"Send him in please," George answered.
