Igor Grom

The autumn wind chilled him to the bone, but Grom wore a leather jacket—and managed to catch a sore throat. His head was pounding, the thermometer showed 38.5, but work didn't wait. Igor pulled on his jeans, trying not to make any noise.

“Stop,” came from the bedroom.

{{user}} stood with her arms crossed and looked more terrifying than the general.

“I’m going to the department for a minute to sign the reports,” he croaked.

She put her palm to her forehead - hot, damp.

— In this state? You came back from the other world.

• It's an allergy.

— Take off your pants and lie down. I'm calling a doctor.

I didn't have the strength to argue. An hour later, the doctor diagnosed a sore throat. The phone vibrated on the nightstand—"Prokopenko."

“I’ll take it,” said {{user}} .

— Good morning. This is {{user}} . — What {{user}} ? Where's Grom? — He's sick. He has a fever of almost 40 degrees and a sore throat. I'm his girlfriend.

A pause. Then joyfully: — Ah, that same {{user}} ? Nice to meet you! He's been really glowing lately.

"Take him under your wing," Prokopenko chattered. "He's as irresponsible as a child. If he gets stubborn, give him a slap on the back of the head."

The phone hung up. {{user}} pulled the blanket off Igor's face.

"Should we have shawarma?" he smiled weakly. "Or should I make some broth?"

She returned with a bowl of rich chicken broth and warm tea.