Warmed-over death. Have I mentioned I don’t do sick well? Most medical people don’t. We think, even fifteen years after we’ve last worked in the field, that we’re supposed to be immune to this crap.
But here I am, Wheezy the Eighth Dwarf, with 1801 words to go. Not even halfway there yet.
The kid made it in safely, but late, I baked the Frankencake, we had the birthday celebration.
And now with one cat sitting on my shoulder purring, and one at my feet snoring, I’m going to do some words.
