The thirty-second day, collapsing like a mountain.

Yes, I am ill!

Nausea, headaches, dizziness, exhaustion, weakness… I never imagined my body could be destroyed so easily. This is what I fear most—in such a desolate place, illness could so effortlessly take my life.

I feel so cold, my body trembling uncontrollably. My head feels like it’s been crushed beneath a wheel, the pain threatening to split it apart. I haven't felt like this in so long.

It’s almost laughable. Once, I actually liked being sick. While I was a student, illness meant I could rest at home, enjoying the attentive care of my loved ones, almost like a monarch. After starting work, I even asked doctors for a few extra days of sick leave, exaggerating my symptoms to do so.

But now, I want nothing to do with this. Yet it descends upon me unbidden.

I can’t vomit anymore; my mouth tastes bitter and sour. If I could, I would scream: “If you want my life, take it! Is this torment bringing you joy?” But do I have the strength? No, none at all. I am so drained I can’t even lift my hand.

The violent retching earlier left my throat feeling scorched. Cold sweat beads relentlessly on my forehead, gathering and dripping down. Contradictory sensations assault me: my face burns while my body shivers. The alternating hot and cold saps my spirit.

The damned rain hasn’t stopped—dripping, pattering, rustling, crackling—making my aching head throb worse. These cursed noises nearly drive me mad.

I am like a caterpillar writhing in pain before transforming, twisting on my bed until I finally curl up. I never expected the illness to come so swiftly, so fiercely, knocking me down without warning.

This state has lasted for so long; I am utterly spent. Darkness overtakes me, and I slip into oblivion.

Time has lost all meaning for me. Once again, I awaken from the cold, teeth chattering incessantly. I don't know how much time has passed, nor do I care. I only feel endless chill; my shirt is soaked, not from heat but from the discomfort. It’s hard to describe. Sweating makes the cold worse—I feel stiff, almost frozen.

Every second is agony. My stomach churns violently, intestines twisted, acidic bile rising to my throat. My head aches and spins, dizzy spells coming in waves.

“Let me die!” I pray silently.

The suffering is unbearable. If I could, I’d give myself a bullet.

Suddenly, a large hand appears, gripping my neck. My face flushes, I can’t breathe.

Instinctively, I reach out, pushing with all my strength.

“This must be a hallucination!” That’s what I tell myself.

But the suffocating sensation forces me to keep fighting. The hand tightens. I start losing consciousness; pain triggers a final desperate struggle, and I roll over.

A loud thud—I fall from the small bed. Clearly, I’m hallucinating, but breathing is genuinely difficult.

The pain from falling jars me awake; terror and suffocation make my whole body tremble.

Little Black seems to sense my distress, running to my side. But there’s nothing it can do to help.

It lies down before me, nudging my face with its head, as if asking, as if encouraging, its tongue quickly licking my face, urging me to get up.

I am parched, my throat burning.

The body’s signals are always the truest and most accurate—perhaps I really have a high fever and need water… but I lack the strength. I dread drifting off, afraid I might never wake again.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve slipped in and out of consciousness. Each time I doze, nightmares follow, and in my weakest moments, Little Black either licks or nudges me awake.

This endless cycle feels like reincarnation; I can barely distinguish reality anymore. I can’t go on like this.

This time, after waking, I refuse to sleep again, even though my eyes can’t open. I dig my fingers into the ground, trying to crawl or prop myself up.

But even so, I fail—or perhaps I succeed.

Because my hand finds the water bottle beneath the bed, though I lack the strength to open it.

I force my eyes open, startled by Little Black. Its head pressed against me, watching my every move with curiosity.

The bottle is full; I can’t lift it, so I use my fingers to drag it toward me, inch by inch.

Finally, it’s within reach. Sweat beads densely on my forehead; my hands and head cannot lift anymore.

Alas, I failed after all.

Painfully, I close my eyes and drift off.

A sudden crackle jolts me awake, sharp sounds piercing my ears.

I have no desire to waste my strength opening my eyes, but the dampness on my face forces me to.

What I see leaves me stunned—and pleasantly surprised.

Remarkably, Little Black has bitten through my plastic water bottle, and water trickles from the hole made by its teeth.

Summoning unknown strength, I nudge the bottle, and push my head toward it.

I drink greedily, desperately, swallowing every drop.

At last, the bottle is dry. I exhale deeply.

My head still aches, but the burning in my throat eases considerably.

I look gratefully at Little Black, who wags its tail, grabs a fruit, and returns to its travel crate to sleep.

The most urgent thirst has been relieved; groggy, I feel sleep overtaking me once more.

Beside the fire, it’s relatively warm. I no longer feel cold, nor have the energy to think. Once again, I sink into sleep.