Chapter 8

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Cecil woke up on a couch. His couch. There was a cold, wet rag on his forehead. He heard noises. The microwave beeped. 

"Who's there?" Cecil asked quietly. No one answered. For a while.

"Cecil?" A familiar voice called. It was Carlos.

"Carlos?" Cecil asked. "Carlos, are you there?"

Carlos walked into the room carrying a red bowl of something. Whatever it was, Cecil knew it was for him. He sat up.

"Are you okay?" Carlos handed Cecil the bowl. It was chicken soup with a plastic spoon. 

"Uh, what happened?" 

"You got sick. Maybe it was the pizza. I don't know." Carlos suggested. Cecil started to eat the chicken in the soup.

"I, uh, I think you should stay here tomorrow. Don't go to work." Carlos said. Cecil stopped stuffing the chicken in his mouth.

"What?" Cecil asked.

"I think you're sick. You need to stay home tomorrow." Carlos argued.

"No! I have to go to work. I'll just drink some medicine and I'll be fine!" Cecil emphasized this by waving his arms around. He wasn't wearing his glasses. Cecil rubbed his hands over his face. "Carlos, where are my glasses?"

"They broke. You stepped on them when you were coming out of the car. I have to go get some new ones." Carlos held up a pair of glasses with a missing lens and a bent and twisted side.  

"I'm still going to work tomorrow!" Cecil's face was turning green. He held his stomach and stopped arguing.

"Cecil, look at you! You're turning green just arguing! You are in NO shape to make cookies, muffins, or any kind of food tomorrow!" Carlos frowned at Cecil. 

"Carlos...your hair." Cecil took his hand and touched the graying temples of Carlos's curly, perfect hair. 

"Yes, my hair." Carlos smiled and took Cecil's hand.

"No, it's turning red!" Cecil shouted.

"What?!"

"It's red! Carlos, it's red!" Carlos jumped up and ran to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. His brown hair was still brown with gray.

"Cecil," Carlos walked back to the couch, "my hair isn't turning red."

"Then why does it look like it?" Cecil asked.





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