Sunday was a particularly painful day.  It was the day you knew, for certain, you had work the next day.  Not that he usually hadn’t done something over the course of the weekend, but it was the principle of the thing, and he genuinely hated Sunday nights.   

Archer also genuinely hated his life at this moment.  He was not working, which might have been a good thing, but he was stuck in bed for all of the wrong reasons.  Propped up against pillows, his legs were covered in a blanket and he grabbed for another tissue out of the little container next to him. 

He couldn’t imagine where he picked this sickness up, but he was sure it was the plague.  It had to be the plague, maybe dragon pox, something atrocious.  Something much worse than the common cold. 

It was making his arms ache and his head felt full of cotton, stuffed to the brim, while every liquid in his brain leaked slowly out through his nose.  And then, of course, there was the throat on fire, and chest that was probably being filled with so much fluid he’d drown in his sleep.  He was sure his brain was actually baking inside of his head.  After he died, at least Squeak would be able to feast on some roasted brain.  He was sure, by her treatment of him that was what she wanted to do.  She wasn’t helping him, that was for damn sure. 

Yes, this was most assuredly life threatening and he was being left to die all alone. 

As he blew his nose into the offending tissue that scratched at the underside of his nose and made it burn, Archer groaned.  Rufus’ head picked up from the floor and he looked at his owner, the loyal companion, staying by his side while he slipped from this world to the next. 

“Ray,” he called out in a strangled, scratchy voice.  “Ray,” the a dragged for what felt like minutes.  He was looking at his water glass on the edge of the table.  It was empty.  He required more and clearly, a dying man could not be expected to get his own water.

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Based on the phenomenon of ‘man cold.’