I kept one eye on her peripherally as we cruised through the streets, watching the way her chest rose and fell too quickly, the way she pressed her forehead against the window.
"Kimmy?" I checked a little later.
She didn't answer. Her skin had turned grayish in the dashboard glow.
I touched her shoulder gently.
"Pull over," she said quietly, bringing her hand to her mouth.
I turned into the next available lot. It was a car wash, the bay entrance dark and shuttered for the day. She had the door open before I'd fully stopped. She made it to the curb and bent over, hands on her knees.
Not vomiting. But close.
I stayed in the car. Waited. Kept the engine running. When she came back after five minutes, she looked worse. She slumped into the seat like the walk back had cost her everything.
We drove through the neon-lit streets of K-Town without saying a word. I kept checking my mirrors, watching for anything that didn't fit. She had her forehead pressed against the window, her eyes closed.
"When was the last time you ate?" I asked.
"This morning," she managed. "Maybe. I don't remember."
My brain told me to keep driving to the safe house, but my gut screamed to get some food into Kimmy before she passed out.
I steered the Mustang into the parking lot of the first shopping center I saw. Its neon signs bled across multiple storefronts in Korean and English—pinks and blues and sickly greens that reflected off the glass. People moved between shops with the kind of energy that came with late-night crowds. It was both the perfect and the most dangerous place to be at.
"Why are we stopping?" She swiveled her head to look around.
"I'm hungry," I said and killed the engine.
We walked into a small diner wedged between a laundromat and a vintage clothing store. The interior was dim and simple. A hostess side-eyed my bandana as she seated us in a booth near the back.
"He's got the flu," Kimmy supplied. To me she whispered tartly, "You could at least swap that for a medical mask when you're in public. That way people would think you're immunosuppressed instead of about to rob the place."
"Do I need to open a suggestion box?"
She shot me an irritating stare. "Go right ahead. I'm sure most of the recommendations will be about the quality of yourcustomer service."
I sighed but didn't respond.
I ordered for both of us. Sandwiches. Water. Coffee. Pulled the visor of my baseball cap low and stayed out of the security camera's view as much as possible.
When the food came, Kimmy ate methodically, not tasting it, just consuming. One small bite after another. I watched her, making sure she kept it down. Her hands were still slightly unsteady as she held the sandwich, but the color was slowly returning to her face.
"Drink," I said, pushing the water toward her.
She did, tilting her head back. Water dribbled down her chin and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Then she saw the coffee the waitress brought.
"No," I said before she reached for it.
"Seven—"
"You're dehydrated. Exhausted. You nearly lost consciousness back there. Coffee isn't happening right now."
"Then why order it?"
"It's for me."
She stared. Then laughed.
