The nausea creeps higher while the bag slowly empties. It isn’t dramatic, though, and in a way, that would almost be easier. It’s a gradual tightening beneath my ribs. A slow roll through my stomach. Heat gathering under my skin while my hands remain cold. I close my eyes.
Locke shifts closer. “Breathe.”
“I am.”
“Barely.”
“I’m trying really hard not to throw up on your boots.”
“They’ve survived worse, baby. Believe me.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You really don’t.”
That makes me laugh, and the laugh turns my stomach. I swallow hard Locke is on his feet immediately, one hand finding the nurse’s attention without leaving my side.
After that, things blur.
A small bowl placed within reach. Medication fed through the line. The nurse asking questions I answer with nods, because speaking
