Page 81 of Gap Control

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No, accurate."

Mason disappeared into the kitchen to warm up whatever soup was left, which gave me enough time to retrieve my masterpiece from beneath the couch cushion where I'd hidden it like contraband.

I'd started it while he was gone. Half-delirious and blanket-wrapped, Sharpie in one hand and tissue in the other. At some point, I spilled tea on the edge. It added character.

When he returned, holding a bowl and a spoon, I sat up straighter.

"Well? Feeling stronger?"

"Strong enough to return fire." I handed him the paper.

He looked at it, blinked, and then stared.

"You made me a comic strip."

"I made you art. Behold:Hot Hockey Nurse Boyfriend Saves the Day."

It was three glorious panels of stick-figure excellence:

Panel one: a very muscular Mason—labelled YOU—wielding a hockey stick against a swarm of cartoon germs wearing tiny frowny faces.

Panel two: sickly me in a blanket cocoon labeled ME, eyes replaced with swirls, saying "ugh."

Panel three: Mason spoon-feeding soup into my mouth while lasers shoot from his eyes at the word INFLUENZA.

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped the bowl.

"I can't believe—"

"Shhh," I said. "Let the art speak."

"You gave me laser eyes."

"They are emotionally true."

He kept laughing, but then he was quiet. He folded the comic carefully, smoothing one edge.

Without comment, he slipped it into the front pocket of his bag.

I blinked. "You're keeping that?"

"Obviously. I need proof."

"Of what?"

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