My husband has the flu. Although he mock-whines when sick, in a pleading little boy voice, he doesn’t need my help now: he’s snoring, sleeping contentedly by my side. The dogs are at his feet, murmurs from their canine dreams occasionally breaking free: they are warm, happy. I’m on my back, staring at the too-blue sky that is flaunting itself through the carelessly closed blinds. Clouds are spinning past the electrical wires; faded brown squirrels are on the march. I swear I heard a bird chirp. I have important things to write, a shower to take, tea to brew. It’s 3 o’clock on a Sunday, February has dawned. I’m too satisfied staring at the incandescent sun. It hasn’t been Winter at all.