"Yeah," he croaks, and frees a hand enough to try to sip more water. It's cool, at least, even if that's barely any help. He dunks his shirt in the bucket and slaps it onto the back of his neck, trying hard to focus on staying in his own head in front of this very nice, very concerned woman even if every inch of him is burning up and the occasional tense whimpery noise is unavoidable. He's shivering with the effort. Or the feverishness. Or probably both - the endorphins are making everything swimmy, and god she's being nice. He feels vaguely bad that he has worried a Very Nice Person even as a spidery-crawling part of his brain wonders if it's possible to die from eating something too spicy.

"Not salt, ey."