Alex didn't sleep that night.
She just stared at the cracked ceiling above her bed, counting every breath Eliorlo took beside her — shallow, wheezy, and slow.
She knew the sound of sickness like a second language. The rattle in his lungs, the heat on his forehead, the way he clenched his fingers in pain even in his sleep — it was all normal now.
Too normal.
Their father hadn't called the doctor in weeks.
"Waste of money," he had said.
"Let him fight it himself."
Fight it?
Eliorlo couldn't even walk to the bathroom without help.
Alex wanted to scream. But she didn't. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, all her grief would come pouring out like broken glass.
Instead, she did the only thing she could:
She held his hand.
And that's when it happened again.
His breathing slowed.
His body relaxed.
The fever didn't vanish — but it lessened.