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She heaved again. Her arms gave out, and she barely caught herself before her face hit the floor. She was gray now, the color gone from her lips, and her whole body was shaking. She swayed on her hands and knees, and her eyes weren’t tracking anything.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t this room.

“Goddamn. Is that the fucking flu?” The second crew member was already in the hallway. “I’m not staying in here. Whatever that is, I don’t want it.”

Arlo backed up three full steps. “Jesus, Ryder. Get her out of here.”

He crossed the room. Fast, but not fast enough to look panicked. He crouched beside her and got an arm under hers. She was weak, almost limp, her whole body shaking. Her skin was cold and slick.

Under any other circumstances, he’d be taking her to the hospital. But somehow, she dragged her head up and tried to look over his shoulder at one of the men.

“Stop, Cassie,” he whispered. “That’s enough.”

He didn’t know if she was doing it because she couldn’t force herself to not look or if she was trying to make herself more sick.

Either way, she had to stop. She definitely didn’t need to be more fucking sick.

She heaved again, dry this time, but the force of it doubled her over against his side. Her knees gave, and he took all her weight and felt her ribs seize under his arm. She was making sounds between the heaves: low, broken, not words.

He got her upright. Barely. She couldn’t straighten all the way.

“Get her to the bathroom at least.” Arlo was holding his beer out to the side like the bottle was contaminated. “Jesus Christ.”

Heath hadn’t moved from the armchair through any of it. Arms crossed. Watching.

Ryder half carried her down the hall. She dropped in front of the toilet with dry heaves that bent her double, tears running down her face from the sheer force of it. She pressed both hands against her skull, and a sound came out of her that was pure wreckage: not crying, not retching, just her body trying to survive what her brain was doing to it.

He wet a washcloth and pressed it against the back of her neck. She flinched but leaned into it, her need for comfort outweighing her desire to not let him touch her.

“Go,” she finally whispered.

Fighting every instinct he had, he left her on the bathroom floor and went back out. The common area smelled like bile, and the mess was still on the floor. Arlo was standing as far from it as the room allowed. Heath had moved to the kitchen counter, arms still folded.

“What the hell?” Heath asked.

“She needs to go home. Must be the flu or something.” Ryder shoved his hands into his pockets and made himself look hassled instead of gutted. “I need to get her out of here.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Arlo looked at the floor. “Nobody wants to play nursemaid.”

Heath’s eyes ran the usual assessment. Ryder held his gaze and let him look. There was nothing to find. The only lie in this building was the reason she was sick, and that didn’t matter because the sick was so ugly nobody in this room cared about reasons. They just wanted her gone.

Come on, you paranoid son of a bitch. Just let us go.

“Fine. But be ready when we call.” Heath pushed off the counter. “Won’t be long now.”

“We need you sharp. So handle your shit.” Arlo gave a half smile. “Maybe keeping her around doesn’t feel so great now.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The other men were already arguing about who was going to clean up the mess.

He went back to the bathroom. She was sitting on the tile floor with her back against the wall, eyes closed, arms wrapped around her knees. Trembling. Her face was slick with sweat.

“We’ve got the green light. They’re letting us go.”

She didn’t open her eyes. He wasn’t sure she could.

He went to the room and packed. Her things, his things, the burner phone back into his boot, his regular phone in his jacket pocket where the Diehls could see it if they checked. He ran another washcloth under cold water and went back for her.

She was still on the floor. He crouched beside her and pressed the cloth against her forehead. “Can you walk?”