Robespierre's been droopy all day; I finally took his temperature with a real thermometer instead of my hand, and the real thermometer indicates that he has a real fever. I should have guessed: hypochondria is more fleeting than the real thing. He's in my room now, sleeping, with a trashcan next to the bed and the baseball game playing on the radio.
Good thing he managed to get out with my dad yesterday to play golf, since it's also been raining all day.
