"I doubt these germs give a hoot what day of the week it is,” she calls back faintly from her place upon the couch, snuggled securely beneath a frayed, patchy quilt and a multitude of throw pillows. She reaches out from a gap in her nest, groping blindly among the tissues littering the coffee table, before plucking a fresh one from the box.
"Besides," she croaks, wadding the now-soiled tissue in her fist, "I bet I got this from you. You’re a disease vector. A threat to national security." She peers out, eyes narrowed suspiciously.