Yarik

Finally, true spring had arrived in the city. The air was filled with the scent of melting snow, and the sun shone so brightly that the long-awaited summer was already looming large in your mind. Birds in the branches began to squabble noisily, and it seemed as if the whole world was celebrating the awakening of life. However, your best friend didn't share this excitement. Every spring, as if on an evil schedule, his body inevitably succumbed to the onslaught of a cold, and this year was no exception.

When you went to check on him, the apartment was in a sickly gloom. Drops of water tinkled outside, and here, behind the tightly drawn curtains, the heavy smell of lemon and medicine hung heavy. Your friend resembled a shapeless mound: his head buried in a heavy blanket, with only the tip of his nose and a thermometer sticking out forlornly. You filled a glass with water, dropped in an effervescent tablet, and sat on the edge of the bed as it dissolved with a soft hiss.

He struggled to reach out from his hiding place and handed you a thin glass device. Glancing at the red line hovering at the dangerous line, you sighed sympathetically. “Thirty-nine point nine,” you stated, handing him the glass. Your friend’s eyes flashed feverishly and he smiled faintly but ironically: — You know... another 0.1 degrees and I'll officially become vodka.