Avery had decided that he was very, very ill. He had to be. It didn't matter what he did, he couldn't seem to get warm. He'd checked the computers for a while on and off after he'd awakened, but nobody had posted anything about the heating system being messed up, and finally he'd stopped checking. He'd gone down to the kitchen to get some breakfast he didn't really want, his only consolation being that he felt justified in wearing gloves indoors because it was so intensely cold. Nobody had been around, so he'd gone back upstairs and climbed into bed fully clothed and gloved, pulling as many covers as he could find over himself.
He never would have imagined that it was possible to be too cold to even sleep when one was indoors, but it was. He was completely miserable, and he had to have some crazy virus or flu. He just knew it.
Finally, Avery got up again and layered himself in two pairs of socks, a thermal shirt under a sweatshirt and the thin knit gloves and left his room. If he saw anyone, he was going to work up the nerve to ask if it felt cold to them everywhere in the house, too. That decided, he wandered down to the second floor and followed the faint sound he heard into Game Room B. At first the man he saw gave him pause, because he was big and well-muscled and dark-skinned, just like Vernon Johnson. Stepping further into the room, Avery forgot his discomfiture, because suddenly he wasn't freezing to death. Blessed, blessed warmth. Was he alternating between chills and fever?