It started early this morning. I woke up to the sound of him sniffling. Not just the occasional sniffle either—it was the kind that sounds like he's trying to vacuum up his own nose. I rolled over to check on him, and there he was, half-buried in the blankets with this ridiculous, defiant look on his face.

"I'm not sick," he croaked, his voice like gravel grinding against gravel.

Sure. Not sick. And I'm a creeper in disguise.

He kept going with this whole charade while I was getting ready. Every five minutes, I'd hear another ACHOO! from the bedroom, followed by some loud muttering about allergies, the weather, or maybe global warming. He even blamed the snow for making him forget his jacket yesterday.

As if that wasn't bad enough, he started insisting it wasn't the snowstorm but the dumpster dive he took for his phone. "I mean, what's a little bacteria when your phone's in trouble?" he said, grinning like he hadn't just confessed to inhaling the essence of garbage.

I finally put my foot down when I heard the second sneezing fit of the morning. Five sneezes. In a row. He tried to make it to six but ran out of steam halfway.

"That's it," I told him, dragging a blanket up over his shoulders. "You're staying in bed today."

Of course, he protested. Something about having too much homework and needing to go to the library. I just stared him down, arms crossed, until he finally gave up and flopped dramatically onto the pillows.

"I'm fine," he groaned, nose stuffed up so badly it sounded more like "I'b fide."

I ignored him and went to get the thermometer. First I started poking his forehead. That's when I felt it—hot, like a furnace.