It makes my heart hurt to see my little man lying next to me listlessly. Breath heavy, cheeks flushed. Those sad eyes only a child can wield.
It’s only a cold. It’s only the flu. It should break soon. He should feel better soon. It could be worse.
I’m sure you’re pretty pleased with yourself right about now. You’ve managed to maintain the upper hand on the tiny man’s body for upward of 96 hours now. Well aren’t you a big tough bully germ.
Here’s the deal.
You have no idea who you’re dealing with. No. Idea.
Didn’t your little infectious friends let you know what you were up against? No. I gather they didn’t they? You know why?
Because they are all dead.
Didn’t you ever wonder why they never reported back to base? Because we killed them all. And I hope they suffered.
You couldn’t take down a tiny 2-pounder with your deadly bacteria-infested brethren. You think you can outlast a 28-pound toddler with your pitiful bronchiolitis influenza virus?
The kid’s nickname is Destroy.
Even if you could survive these games long enough to land us in the hospital – what then? We know how to work those monitors like no tomorrow. And I can observe the hell out of my boys’ symptoms.
I’ve. Got. This. Game.
Face it. There is no good end for you here. I suggest you head out of town in the dead of night.
And tell your friends. It won’t end well…
This is not a threat. This is a statement of fact. This is a declaration of war.