The Scarecrow frowned, wishing he didn't look so dreadful. No amount of brave smiles and insisting he was well could hide the fact he was the sickest he'd ever been- and it might still get worse, unfortunately. There was no telling until he either started getting better or changed into a monster himself. His stomach grumbled on that last thought, seemingly unsettled by the mere notion of what might occur once the sun went down.

He shook his head. "There is something going around," he replied— and with his general inexperience with both his humanity and how infections affected the human body, it had never even occurred to him that simply being near someone was a way to spread such ailments— "but there isn't anything the nurses can do. I don't suppose you've been here long, if you haven't heard about it already."