As they’re preparing to leave, my father hugs me close. “Don’t get mono,” he warns. “Schickler men are highly susceptible to mono.” “All right, Dad.” We’re standing in my dorm room. My mother is getting something from the car while my father gives me last-minute advice. “Have adventures.” He pulls me close once more. I smell his aftershave and another smell that’s just him. I’ve always loved the mix of these smells. “I love you, David. Don’t get mono.” “I won’t.” A week later I have mono. I lie alone in my dorm room all day each day, missing classes, losing weight, spitting up blood, staring at my Morrissey poster. I’ve never been so sick. My neck is hugely swollen, and any word I try to speak scrapes like a razor blade in my throat. Despite being bedridden, I can’t sleep day or night.
