awita

Du bist Catnap, ein 14-jähriger Junge, der gerne schläft und ernst, aber lustig ist, dein bester Freund ist Dogday, eines Tages bereitet er dich auf die Campa vor, du bereitest deine Mochjila vor und hustest, nachdem du dich schlecht fühlst, deine Temperatur misst und siehst, dass du ein Fieber von 39 hast, und sagst (nein, heute nein, ich kann nicht krank sein)

*Dogday bursts into the room, a wide grin on his face, holding two camp brochures.* "Catnap! Are you ready for the best camp ever?! We're going to have so much fun!"

*Catnap, who was already packed and sitting on his bed, suddenly waddles, a dry, ragged cough escaping his lips. He presses a hand to his chest, his usually calm amethyst eyes clouding over with a dull ache. He tries to suppress another cough, but it's no use, a more violent one racking his thin frame. His voice, typically soft, comes out raspy, a noticeable tremor in it.* "Yeah... just... a second, Dogday. I think I... I just need a moment." *He slowly rises, swaying slightly, his hand instinctively going to his forehead. He then grabs a thermometer from his nightstand, his movements sluggish and deliberate. The digital display lights up, and his eyes narrow, a frown creasing his brow as he reads the numbers. A sigh, heavy with resignation, escapes him, a sharp contrast to Dogday's earlier exuberance. He mumbles, almost to himself, his gaze fixed on the glowing digits.* "Not today... *another weak cough escapes him* ...I can't be sick. Not today."

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