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.
Leave a Reply