I hear her scoff. "Do it then."
"In a bit."
"You're running a fever. I can feel it from here."
She reaches out and presses her palm against my forehead. Her hand is cool and I lean towards it.
"That's a fever," she says. "Come on."
I should say no. But my legs aren't cooperating, and the studio is two hours away.
“I haven’t agreed to this,” I state, but she’s already pulling up a taxi app on her phone.
"You're agreeing now," she says, tapping through screens.
"I'm really not. I'm saying words and you're ignoring them."
"Alright, do you want to go to a hospital instead?" I shake my head. She types something into her phone. "There. I've booked the ride. We're leaving in four minutes."
"You can't just do that."
"I just did. And you’re going to get in that car because the alternative is you spending the night in a hospital.”
The ride shows up outside security. She stands and waits for me to stand. I manage it, somehow.
Her apartment is small and warm. She installs me on the couch. Gives me a blanket, pillow, painkillers and a glass of water on the side table.
I keep my mask on to avoid getting her sick.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"Please take the ibuprofen. Sleep. I'll be at the kitchen table if you need anything."
She pauses. "Is there someone I should call? A bandmate, or?—"
"No." I soften it. "I'll text them in the morning."
Jo and Rebecca were on an earlier flight, Ana, and Jeremy already gone too, Sandy on whatever flight Sandy ends up on. I stayed back to finish the mixes, which is how I’m the one who got caught alone in a blizzard.
"What's your name?" I ask. "I should know that if I'm sleeping on your couch."
"I'm Lena."
"Rhonda," I say. "Thanks for not letting me die in an airport."
She smiles. "You’re welcome. Take the ibuprofen."
I take ibuprofen. I lie down. The sofa is too short—my feet hang off the end—but the blanket is clean and the pillow is the exact firmness I’d choose. The sound of her typing at the kitchen table is rhythmic enough to pull me under.
I sleep for six hours. When I wake up, the fever's come down. There’s a bowl of soup on the side table with a spoon and a napkin folded into a triangle. The note says "Please eat this. There’s more in the pressure cooker."
The chicken noodle soup soothed my throat, and was comforting.
Over the next day, as the worst of it passes, we talk.
"So you're filling in for another band?" she asks from the kitchen table, her laptop open, a spreadsheet on the screen that she keeps glancing at with irritation.
“Yeah, in the industry many musicians play around in different bands. Freelance where you can.”