Burr does sleep, too. Deeper than Hamilton, pulled under by fever. And he expects to be better when he wakes. Doesn't expect, for it is not so conscious. Rather it is a child's hope, belief--that this is just how things are. You go to bed sick and you are looked after so it must be that when you wake up you are well.

But Burr does not wake up well. He wakes sweat covered and retching, rolling to the side of the bed, though there is nothing to come up, and immediately that old fear slams back into him, and he is heaving himself to his feet and walking unsteady to the desk, delirious, head pounding, casting about for a quill and a scrap of parchment.

He needs to--he should write Van Ness. This can't wait another minute. Burr has--he's ruined everything and unless he deals with this right now it will be too late. It's that old terror. The one that paralyzes one part while leaving the body moving.

Don't think about it, just--the letter. Send the letter. He needs more of the potion. He needs to be sure. And Van Ness would never turn him away.