"Ye don't understand, it wasn't just a dream," she said. "It was like seein' it happen all over again." She nuzzled her face against his neck. She was warm, too warm. One could tell she had a fever. It happened quite often since Harold had been killed. Every now and again, she would take ill and have nightmares. She wasn't deathly ill, just sickly at the moment, but it was clear that it wasn't the catching kind, but rather the kind borne of grief. The babies seemed to both calm down eventually, going back to sleep because they were tired out from all the crying. She felt horrible that she had not checked on them and went to pull away, "I have to check the children."