She bends over and places her palms on her knees. Her back roils as she tries to suppress a heave. I move closer to her and put my hand on her back.
“Go back to the car,” she groans. “You don’t need to see this.”
“I’ve seen far worse things come out of people than vomit, kotyonok.”
She groans again, louder, and tries to push me away with one hand, but her concentration is split and I’m not willing to move. She dry heaves a couple more times before straightening up.
“Just throw up instead of suppressing it,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better after.”
“I didn’t eat this morning because I was nauseous. And I didn’t end up eating with Chris at the restaurant. There’s nothing to throw up.”
“Maybe we need to get you an IV drip.”
“What will that do?” she asks.
“Get rid of the nausea so that
