The fever spiked by day three like a faulty calculator, and by day five, the bone pain was so severe I told my colleague the office chair felt like a bed of nails. The true test was the crushing weakness after the fever broke—climbing the stairs to our flat felt like a mountain expedition. My father’s quiet monitoring from his ration shop stool, bringing me coconut water every few hours, was the real calendar of recovery. Books say it ends in a week, but that fatigue, *aai re*, it lingers like a stubborn client.
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