Page 71 of Cava with My Colleague

“Hey, buddy,” Carlos says weakly. “I’m okay.”

Izan whines, pressing his shoulder against Carlos’s leg.

“Come on,” I say, guiding Carlos inside. “Couch. Now.”

I help him to the couch where he slumps over, completely spent from the stairs. Izan follows, sitting at Carlos’s feet, watching him with worried dog eyes.

“Does he need to go out?”

Carlos shrugs. “The dog walker was here not too long ago.”

“I’m going to get you some water and check what you have for medicine,” I say, already heading toward his kitchen.

Carlos just nods, eyes closed.

His kitchen is neat, organized. I find glasses easily, fill one with water from the tap. In his bathroom medicine cabinet, I find basic pain relievers and fever reducers, but the Paracetamol is expired by two years.

When I return, Carlos hasn’t moved. Izan has his head resting on Carlos’s knee.

“When did you last eat?” I hand him the glass and he guzzles the water. Carlos hands it back, then closes his eyes and leans his head against the couch.

“This morning. A magdalena.” A muffin, he means.

“I know you have a fever. Chills?”

Carlos makes a grunt of affirmation.

“Have you thrown up?”

Another grunt. This one sounds like a no.

“But you are nauseous.”

It’s not a question, but Carlos says yes anyway.

“I’m going to run out for medicine. And you should definitely drink more water.” I refill his glass from the kitchen sink and bring it back. “Let me see what you have in your fridge.”

The answer is: not much. Some eggs, cheese, condiments. We’ve both been traveling too much to keep fresh food stocked.

“Okay, I’ll be back with food. What sounds good?”

He grunts. Ambiguously.

“Come on. You need to eat something. Soup? Sandwich?”

“Sandwich.” Carlos’s head is tilted back against the couch cushion, his gaze watchful. The afternoon light streams through his windows, and Izan hasn’t moved from his protective position.

I remember a sandwich shop not far from here and look up the closest pharmacy. “Stay right there, I’ll be back.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“We agreed. Professional⁠—”

“Taking care of a sick colleague is professional,” I cut him off. “Anyone would do this.”

It’s a lie and we both know it. But he doesn’t call me on it.