“You’re probably anemic.”

“You think so?”

“It fits the symptoms: Lightheadedness; Increased thirst; Fatigue; Shortness of breath.”

Larry sat on the exam bed, tissue paper crinkling under his weight. He felt cold, exposed. That was likely do to the draft from his hospital gown. Why did they always make you take off your clothes? he wondered.

“So what should I do?”

“Iron. And rest. We’ll admit you overnight for observation, but it should clear up quickly. Warning, though,” the beautiful young doctor said with a wink, “the pills are huge!”

He did his best to laugh, to not appear weak, but he felt like garbage.

He got a room to himself, which was a nice bonus. Famished, he tried to eat the lukewarm burger and fries the nurse brought along with instructions that he shouldn’t take the pills on an empty stomach. It was a challenge, though, as he seemed to have lost all craving for food.

He thought about the doctor.

She was stunning.

He had done his best not to be one of “those guys,” the creepers he was sure she had to deal with as a young, attractive physician. But he couldn’t shake it.

He even dreamt about her. Her seemingly glowing green eyes, her long, flaxen hair (was that the word… “flaxen?” It seemed like the word.) He dreamt that she visited him that night, that she wasn’t so much in his hospital room as he was merely in her presence, that she was everything.

He woke up that morning feeling near hypothermic. He wasn’t shivering, just cold. So cold.

Was this part of the anemia?

And how did he even become anemic? He didn’t bleed, ate lots of iron rich foods, and was generally in good health. He’d only come to the hospital originally for a twisted ankle, but that seemed to have heeled already, so why did he still feel so crumby.

Each night, Larry had the same dream that the doctor had visited him, each morning he woke up feeling worse, not better. How long did the meds take? His nurse was confused, they should be working by now. But no, he was getting worse.

By the fifth night he was legitimately worried. Was he dying? Was it something worse, like cancer or one of those nasty viruses that eat brains or something? He asked the nurse to get his doctor, but she was always busy, always a promise that she’d be by soon.

But she only ever visited Larry in his dreams.

On the eighth morning, Larry woke with a start. The sun was coming up and he was in excruciating pain. He jumped out of bed and yanked the curtains closed, darkening the room. Immediately, he started to feel better, but his skin seemed to literally be smoking, bright and swollen with blisters. But it, too, healed almost immediately once the light was gone. Was this a new symptom? Was he allergic to light now? He’d heard of that, a weird birth defect, but he’d never had any issues with direct sunlight in the past.

He leapt from the window to the other side of the bed and hit the “nurse” button. She had to find the doctor!

Wait…

What?

He realized he leapt nearly fifteen feet, and OVER a hospital bed.

What was going on?

The nurse came in, but appeared unsurprised. “Hello, Mr Archer. What can I do for you?”

“The sun, it, like, burned my skin! That can’t be normal, can it? And, you know what else, I just jumped from over there to over here, but, like, over the bed. Like, I jumped completely over it. That’s not something I can do, normally, much less with anemia or whatever. What is going on?”

She no-teeth smiled at me and, in a calm voice, said, “Nothing to worry about, Mr Archer. I’ll let Betty know you’re ready for her.”

Larry was confused. “Who? Who is Betty?”

“You know Betty, silly. …Betty Acula? She’s your physician, Dr. Acula.”