S-i-l came round this afternoon to search the basement for one of the three thermometers my brother said he has, none of which he took to the condo or, indeed, packed with his toiletries down in my basement. (Which smells pleasantly of Dr Bronner's and Aquamarin shower gel now.) Bro had a fever yesterday that tylenol took care of, but today feels worse. So of course I was at once assailed by the Darte imagination of disaster. (It's actually the Verzieux imagination of disaster, from my maternal grandmother whose name, looks, and neuroses I've inherited intact. We none of us learned to ride bicycles as children because my mother never learned to ride a bicycle because *her* mother knew her children would be killed by a car if they ever got on a bike.)
However one can't be all Ack!! with my s-i-l, is probably why my brother married her. Instead I turned to my kitchen drawers and found my own thermometer, unused since 1998 I believe (never ever throw anything away) and gave it to her when she failed to find any of their own.
With which she has ascertained that he has a fever of 98.8 with no other symptoms beyond malaise. The Cassandra in this corner is cautiously relieved.