**This letter is a depiction of actual events, with some emphasis added for dramatic effect.
Dear Miss Moulton,
Harris regrets to inform you that he is unable to come to school today. He is truly disappointed with this matter and has asked me to inform you with much haste (he has been reminding me every five minutes since 7:10 a.m.). Not to worry, we have been taking his temperature every few hours in order to determine the half life of Ibuprofen. So some academia is being pursued between watching Young Indiana Jones Episodes and playing Webkins. We have determined Ibuprofen lasts about 6.5 hours a 65 pound subject. If there is any school work that he can do today, I think that it might aid in his recovery. He is quite anxious to be among his peers so he can resume his duty as line leader, not lose any more money from his checkbook, and not listen to Fiest, 1 2 3 4, repeatedly (only if I were as lucky). If you a worried about his condition, let me calm your fears. His illness is a spotty one, at one moment he is laying on the couch asking for more blankets to smother the chills and the next he is playing Super Why, bounding of our new leather ottoman, with his kid sister. As of now, he is lounging on the couch in a big lump of blankets. I have perfumed the air with all the comforts of home: fresh laundry, home baked bread (which he didn't want any of), and disinfectant. He is still determined to present his science project on Wednesday and, lucky for him, has found the strength and time to muddle through the organization of his facts about whether tapping soda cans does reduce the chance of explosion, by the way, it doesn't. All and all I cannot regret that this virus chose my son as a host. I hope that you realize what delightful company he is and welcome his return as I morn his loss.
Hopefully, but a bit regretfully, his quarantine will be lifted, his fever extinguished, and he will back at school tomorrow eager to learn.