Barrow had asked Lazar to help him to bed, and Lazar did, and there he has remained since. A low fever has crept in over the hours, and he lies as listlessly as it's possible to be while shivers wrack his body, curled on one side and looking at nothing while the blanket balled in his tightfisted grip threatens to shred from tension.

He hasn't spoken much. It was a an accomplishment that he said anything at all, earlier, with how his teeth chatter and his mind wanders. The room's quiet is enhanced by the early hours of morning, with little activity outside the infirmary-- anyone awake right now probably doesn't want to be.