I've been on the same page for twenty minutes, eyes scanning headlines but not absorbing a single word. Every so often, I glance over to Sam, asleep in her bed, her face turned away from me toward the window.
Only now I see her features contort—at first so subtly I would have missed it if I wasn't watching obsessively. A crease forms between her brows. Then her eyelids squeeze tighter, and her lips curl inward, as if she's biting back a scream inside her dream.
I drop the magazine. It lands on the linoleum with a soft slap.
"Angel?" I say tentatively, the syllable catching in my throat.
I stand, the slick vinyl of the visitor chair creaking beneath me, and cross the room in two steps. The light through the window is harsh, the sky outside overcast, but the hospital still feels colorless and artificial.
Sam's hands, which had been folded over the blanket, clench into fists, grabbing at the stiff material. Her breathing is uneven—sharp, shallow gasps that sound like she's suffocating.
My heart rate jumps to match hers.
I brush her hair out of her eyes—her hair is sticky with sweat, and I notice the wet patches spreading across her pillow.
She grimaces, a whimper escaping her lips, and then her eyes flutter open, clouded, unfocused.
"Sam?" I try again, voice trembling now. "Angel, hey, it's just me. Are you okay?"
She opens her mouth, but only a ragged groan comes out. She's squinting, like the light hurts, but her gaze eventually lands on me.
"Zachy," she croaks, and then her face folds into a mask of pain so total it looks like she's splitting in half.
Her hands fly to her gut, clutching so fiercely her knuckles turn white.
I barely have the presence of mind to press the nurse's call button, my thumb mashing the plastic until I feel it might snap.
At the same time, I try to soothe her, babbling nonsense, "It's okay, Sam, I'm here, you're safe, it's okay, help is coming,shhhh." My own voice sounds far away, like I'm underwater.
Sam doubles over, folding in on herself, and I try to ease her back onto the bed, but she resists, curling tight as a comma.
Then she starts to cough—deep, hacking spasms that wrack her whole body.
Each cough is punctuated by a wail, the kind she made as a kid after falling off her bike and gashing her knee open.
But this is worse.
It's a sound of pure animal pain, the kind that makes my own bones ache in sympathy.
She gags, and I'm not ready for the violent lurch of her body as vomit explodes from her mouth onto the pristine white sheets.
Shocked, I freeze for half a second, then scramble for the blue plastic basin under her bed, my hands shaking so hard I nearly drop it.
I fumble it into place just in time for the next wave.
Sam retches again and again, the force of it twisting her on the mattress.
Some of the bile lands on her chin, her hair, the collar of her hospital gown. The acidic stench fills the room, sharp and thick enough to make my own gorge rise.
I pull her hair back as best I can, using the hem of my T-shirt to wipe her mouth.
Tears carve clean lines down her cheeks, and she sobs, "Make it stop. Please, make it stop."
I can only say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," because I can't make it stop and I can't do anything and I am useless, absolutely useless, and the call button is still flashing red and no one is coming.
Then, at last, the door bursts open.
A nurse in pale blue scrubs strides in, eyes wide with alarm, taking in the scene in an instant: the vomit, the thrashing, Sam's body arched in pain, me kneeling over her with my hands outstretched and helpless.
