He felt hot, quite hot, huddled under the covers. He was awake, but he put off the moment of opening his eyes, wishing to prolong the heat, the comfort. The insides of his eyelids were orange. From somewhere in the chalet – a washing machine, perhaps, or maybe it was his own ears – came a faint, soothing hum. The wash was going around and around behind its little porthole, tumbling slowly in the scalding water. Nicolas’s knees touched his chin; the hand clutching the covers was pressed against his lips – he could feel the dry warmth of the knuckles. Somewhere in the bed was his other hand, somewhere in the lazy, toasty depths where his body lay all curled up. When he finally opened his eyes, the light was warm too. The curtains had been drawn, but behind them the sun was shining so brightly that the room was bathed in an orange glow sprinkled with tiny dots of light. Recognizing the table, the lamp shade, Nicolas understood that they’d installed him in the office where the telephone was. He let out a feeble moan, to hear the sound of his voice, then groaned again, louder, to find out if there was anyone around. Out in the hall, footsteps approached. The teacher sat down on the edge of his bed. Putting a hand on his forehead, she asked him softly if he felt better, if he hurt anywhere. She offered to open the windows, and the sunshine streamed gaily into the room. Then she went to get a thermometer. Did Nicolas know how to take his own temperature? He nodded. She handed him the thermometer, which vanished into the bed. Fumbling under the covers, still curled up in a ball, he pulled down his pajama pants and guided the thermometer between his buttocks. It felt cold and he had trouble finding the hole, but he managed, nodding again when the teacher asked him if everything was okay. She continued to stroke his forehead while they waited; after a moment, there was a faint ringing under the blanket. The teacher said that was enough time, and the thermometer made its way back to her. ‘Almost a hundred and three degrees,’ she read. ‘You should rest.’ When she asked him if he wanted anything to eat, he said no; something to drink, then – he ought to have fluids for a temperature. Nicolas drank, then withdrew into the warmth, the sweet and fuzzy sluggishness of fever. He played some more with the black ball. Later, the telephone awakened him. The teacher arrived as quickly as if she had been standing right outside in the hallway. She spoke for a few minutes in a low voice, smiling at Nicolas all the while, then hung up, sat on the edge of his bed to have him take his temperature again, and gave him more to drink. She asked him gently if he’d ever walked around at night before without realizing what he was doing. He said he didn’t know, and she squeezed his hand as though satisfied with his answer, which both surprised and relieved him. Still later, he heard the bus rumbling out in the driveway, and in the front hall, his classmates returning with cheerful commotion from their skiing lesson. There were shouts, trampling footsteps on the stairs, laughter. The teacher asked everyone to quiet down because Nicolas was ill. He smiled, closed his eyes again. He loved being sick, having a fever, pushing back the big black ball just when it was about to flatten him. He loved these strange sounds – cracklings, buzzings – coming from outside or inside his body, he didn’t know which. He loved being taken care of, without any responsibilities besides swallowing a little medicine. He spent a wonderful day, sometimes letting himself drift off into a teeming, feverish drowsiness, sometimes enjoying lying awake, absolutely still, listening to the bustling life of the chalet without having to take part in it. He heard a tangle of shrill voices downstairs at mealtime, plates being stacked, merriment, the tongue-in-cheek scoldings of the teacher and instructors. The teacher came up to see him every hour, and Patrick came once too. He felt Nicolas’s forehead, like the teacher did. and told him he was really something else. Nicolas would have liked to thank him for saving his life, but he was afraid that kings of the road didn’t do such things, that it would sound fake, soppy, so he kept quiet. At nightfall, the teacher told Nicolas that she had to call his mother again. She’d already called her that morning, while he was asleep, and now she had to bring her up to date on how he was doing. He could speak to his mother if he wished. Nicolas gave a long, drawn-out sigh, indicating that he didn’t feel up to it, and heard only what the teacher reported. That he had a high fever, that it was too bad, of course, poor thing, but that no, he didn’t need to be sent home. And there wasn’t anyone who could take him home, either. Then she talked about sleepwalking. She said cases like this were not uncommon, but it was surprising no one had noticed it until now. Nicolas could tell, from what the teacher said, that his mother was protesting: he had never walked in his sleep before. Nicolas was annoyed by her insistence on defending him from this accusation, as though it were some shameful disease for which she might have been held accountable. He was quite content to have the teacher put the previous evening’s events down to sleepwalking. That way, he didn’t have to explain himself. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t a question of willpower. They would leave him alone. ‘I’d like to put Nicolas on the phone,’ said the teacher, hastening to add, after Nicolas looked at her imploringly, ‘but he’s asleep right now.’ Nicolas flashed her a grateful smile before snuggling down into his bed again, wriggling his entire body, burying his face in the pillow and smiling, this time, all to himself.