Invalid

A girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, brings some water in a rusty bean can, its edge razor-sharp. I thank her but she returns a scowl beneath the strange, predator's eyebrows. Slowly I check this wreckage of a room. Plaster has given up clinging to the walls, exposing the brickwork, and in some places the outside world. Water dripping from the ceiling forms stagnant , green pools on a rotting carpet. Five or six wooden pallets act as safe stepping stones to protect the body from whatever viral mutations lurk and breed at floor level. I realise that the stinking mattress I'm lying on, thank Lazar, is also raised up on a pallet. Another one, in the middle of the room, is occupied by a boy, scribbling frantically on a piece of card. He holds it up. It's a picture of me. There's a word underneath, spelt wrongly: INVALLID. Does he means I'm an invalid? Or not valid?