She sounded kind of panicked to me, "Not really. I feel really sick and weak. I don't think I can even lift my head at the moment. Must be from all of the dust particles in the air, because my breathing is worse and my inhaler hasn't been helping at all," I called weakly, "Why? What's going on? Is something wrong?"

Obviously, there was, because my mom was hesitant to answer me. After a few minutes of deafening silence, she answered, "No, sweetie. I'm just worried is all," but she sounded like she was trying to convince, or assure herself otherwise, "They were just saying these horrible things about this "super-virus" on the news. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling okay."

Since the passing of my dad five years ago, Mom had become very worrying along with becoming as paranoid as can be. It was apparent she was afraid of losing another, and that showed with how nervous she seemed when answering me. I heard her footfalls carry away from my door and down the short hall, back into the living room. Suddenly, the light buzzing of the television was broken by the chiming of a door bell; a creak followed, and then the soft speaking of words after that. Moments later, another knock rapped on my bedroom door, "Yes," I called while wondering what it could be this time.

"Sorry to bother you, honey, but someone's here to visit you," she said through the door, "Do you think you're up to speaking to them?"

"Let them in," I answered, "I don't think what I have is contagious."

My door opened with a silent creak from the old, worn hinges; I turned over slowly, curling up on my right side into the fetal position, and gathering my blankets around me and holding them as close as possible to my body to keep warm. A light-haired, light-skinned boy crossed my threshold with curious, blue eyes, 'Cain Bertram?' I mentally asked myself.

I lifted my eyebrow weakly at him quizzically, "What are you doing here?" I asked rather bluntly.