But by the time they arrived at the Flynn Mansion, Ernest was slumped against the car door, unresponsive—no amount of calling or shaking could stir him.
Quentin touched his forehead and flinched. It was burning hot.
The fever had sunk its claws deep into him.
Kira hurried in with a thermometer, gently pressing it against his forehead. Moments later, the reading flashed—103.8. He was practically on fire. If they didn’t get him help soon, the fever might not just take a toll—it could take his life.
“Yes,” Quentin said, his voice urgent. “Mr. Flynn, you need to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” Ernest muttered, brushing it off like it was nothing. His tone was casual, almost defiant. “I’m not going to die from this.”
He knew full well how long he’d been sick.
The fever hadn’t crept up on him and caught him off-guard—it had lingered for days, gnawing at him like guilt. But he deliberately refused to see a doctor because part of him didn’t want to get better.
How could he allow himself comfort when Elissa and Locke—wherever they were—could be suffering far worse? He bore his illness like penance. And yet, somehow, it still felt like too little.
“Ernest!” Linda inhaled sharply, her patience fraying. “If you still won’t listen, I’ll call Nyla! I mean it!”
Without waiting for his answer, she turned to the door. “Kira! Kira!”
“I’m here!” Kira came running, her eyes flicking anxiously to Ernest. “Mr. Flynn, please—please let the doctor treat you.”
The moment Nyla’s name was spoken, something flickered in Ernest’s expression. He hesitated, then slowly nodded.
“Go,” Linda said to Quentin, not wasting a second. “Bring the doctor in. Now.”
“Yes, right away.”
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The doctor arrived shortly after and quickly began his examination. An IV was prepared, the medication administered. Ernest’s fevered body finally began to ease as the cool drip fought the fire within him.
“The fever is serious,” the doctor said grimly. “He’ll need several days of IV treatment and constant temperature monitoring. If it doesn’t break soon, it could progress into pneumonia. He also needs proper meals and full rest.”
“Understood,” Linda said firmly.
The news weighed heavily on everyone. Kira and Quentin exchanged quiet, worried glances.
When the doctor finally left, silence settled over the room like dust. Linda took a seat beside the bed, her presence calm and steady.
Ernest turned his head slowly, his face unreadable. “You should go,” he said flatly. “Get some rest in your own room.”
“No,” Linda replied gently, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ll stay. In case you get thirsty or need anything, I’ll be here to help.”
“There’s no need.” His voice was hollow, his eyes deep and empty. “I want to sleep alone. I can’t rest with someone watching me.”
Hearing his words, Linda froze. The faint smile on her lips went rigid, caught somewhere between disbelief and heartache.
.
.
.