The blankets are too hot and too itchy, and he's too tired and sick to fight them off. One moment he's too hot, the next he's frozen. He wishes he'd hurry up and die already.

"It happened," is what he manages. He's not going to explain why he fought the prick, and he's not going to justify it either. It annoys him that he has to, when he obviously came out of it worse for wear. She's never going to trust him, and that's just life. "Ask him. Prick likes talking."

Then she can come back and blame him, and by then he'll probably be taking a bite out of the nearest patient. He ought to do something about that. Shit, everything's going to fall apart because he has a cold. He sets in shivering again.