Not Feeling Good...

She belched, sputtered, and drooled into the toilet, but only the thick saliva that had been accumulating in her mouth came out. She scowled and bent further over the bowl, holding tightly to either side of the seat. She knew she needed to empty her sick stomach, but so far had had no luck. She considered trying to touch the back of her throat, but she kept gagging naturally and assumed sooner or later it would happen.

Her abdomen contracted sharply, and a hot trickle of liquid poured down her chin. She coughed wetly, willing her body to cooperate, but only shallow gags followed. She pressed on her belly and forced herself to keep coughing.

Think about something disgusting, she told herself. Rotten garbage. Enemas. When that guy got sick all over the floor in the foyer. Dirty diapers.

Her tongue curled into a rasping retch, but still nothing came up.

She whined in frustrated despair. "Come on," she said aloud. "I need to throw up!" Speaking triggered another unproductive gag.

Part of her just wanted to return to her desk and rest, but every time she considered it she felt a renewed surge of overwhelming nausea.

Then, just when she thought perhaps her stomach was empty after all, a strong heave gathered low in her gut and rumbled upward. She bent closer to the toilet as her throat filled with hot sludge, and the remnants of her last meal gushed into the water. Finally!

She rocked with the heaves and pressed on her belly to keep it coming, but her body had reached the tipping point and it wasn't going to stop now.

Long, rasping retches issued from her along with a thick flood of yellowish-brown vomit. She flushed to get some of it out of sight, but the bowl was quickly befouled anew.

She felt the painful discomfort ebb slowly as she emptied herself. It took especially strong heaves to bring up some of the thickest material from lower in her stomach, and she suspected the people in the surrounding offices could hear her even through the walls. At this point she didn't even care if the entire building knew she was blowing chunks. All that mattered was getting rid of what was making her so sick.

No one can say I didn't try to keep my supper down, James thought. He had been lying perfectly still for the past twenty minutes, breathing slowly through his nose and trying to think about something besides the loud churning of his stomach. Surges of nausea kept washing over him, and twice he held his breath to fight back the urge to barf.

Worse, his wife had taken away the garbage can to empty it and had forgotten to bring it back. So if he lost his supper he'd have to make a run for the toilet.

Now actual pain was pulsing through his belly, cold sweat was dampening his clothes, and he was drooling near-constantly into a handful of tissues.

A sudden tightness in his throat warned him he was about to lose the battle, and he scrambled to get up from the bed and open his door.

He had barely cleared the doorway when it felt like someone had punched him in the gut and hot mush surged up his throat. It all happened too fast for him to try to hold it in his cheeks or gulp it back. A forceful arc of pinkish-yellow sludge with lighter chunks left his mouth and rained onto the hardwood floor. He staggered forward a couple of steps before going down on his knees--in the spatter of his own vomit. He wrapped his arms around his middle and doubled over with an even louder heave. Clumps of half-digested food made audible splats as they landed on the floor.

He heard running footsteps on the stairs and closed his eyes in humiliation.

"James!" his wife cried when she spotted him crouched on his knees, vigorously emptying his stomach. She grabbed the garbage can from the bathroom and held it under his mouth as he continued to expel thick sludge.

"It's okay," she said in a much calmer voice than he could have mustered if their situations were reversed. "Just let it come."

He gave a hearty cough, then a rasping retch that brought up another river of vomit. This time it all pattered into the can. He swayed along with the wracking heaves as a seemingly endless flow of chunky sickness poured forth.

One particularly thick hunk of emesis became lodged in his throat, and he coughed violently, fighting a choking feeling. She firmly patted his back until the gob flew out, immediately followed by a long spurt of much runnier vomit. Soon after that his retching subsided, and after a few dry heaves he was able to sit up and rasp an apology.

"You obviously couldn't help it," his wife said with a sympathetic shake of her head.

He shook his head, moaned, and spat into the can. "No garbage can," he rasped.

She realized what he meant and covered her forehead with a wince. "I forgot it downstairs. I'm so sorry!"

"You didn't know I'd be sick like this," he said with a light cough.

"Let's get you cleaned up and back in bed, and I'll worry about the floor. later."

James staggered to the bathroom to rinse his mouth in the sink. His wife brought him a clean pair of pants that didn't have puke smeared below the knees.

He nodded in thanks but didn't feel up to speaking.

She felt like her breakfast wasn't going to stay down much longer, so she hurried to the ladies' room. By the time she reached it, she was coughing lightly into her hand, fighting back the bile. She lunged for the toilet, falling to her knees and holding her hair back with one motion.

Her throat clenched, and a gurgling retch announced the imminent exit of her stomach contents. She leaned closer to the water as a hot gush of sludge poured out of her mouth. Three great heaves shook her body as she continued to vomit, and then--it stopped.

She gasped and coughed, expecting more to come momentarily. She had eaten much more than that for breakfast. Pain wracked her middle, and waves of nausea made her sway.

Come on, she thought. Bad enough I have to puke, but can't I at least get it over with quickly?

Part of her wanted to flush away what she'd gotten up so far so she didn't have to look at it, but the other part wanted to keep it there in hopes it would inspire her to lose the rest. So she sat in a stalemate with her own body, overwhelmed by sickness but seemingly unable to rid herself of the rest.

Wet coughs gave her hope, and she drooled copiously, but after a shallow, almost silent gag she stilled again.

She truly hated making herself throw up, especially when she felt like it was going to happen any second on its own. So she waited, and drooled, and listened to her stomach slosh around.

How could she feel so sick and not barf? She pressed on her gut and forced some more coughs until a genuine retch twisted her esophagus. A trickle of cloudy liquid spilled down her chin. Before she could feel too frustrated, however, her body coiled with tension anew, and her tongue lifted with a deep gag. Thick vomit rose in her burning throat and spilled noisily into the toilet.

Finally.

She rocked back and forth with wracking heaves, clinging to the toilet. Chunks plopped into the mess in rapid succession. Her abdomen began to hurt from the muscle contractions.

Well, this is what I wanted, she thought with dark humor.

He was glad he had made it into the privy before heaving up a deluge of chunky vomit. He was not glad, however, to be so sick. He knelt in front of the toilet, clinging to either side of the seat. The tank hadn't even refilled yet from flushing away the first salvo before he felt his stomach turn over again. He bent closer to the water as his throat began to spasm, and a second later a thick flow of barf splashed into the bowl.

He didn't fight it, hoping to get it over with quickly. Pain in his middle made it impossible to sit up straight, and he could not suppress a moan when there came a lull in his illness.

What had made him so sick? He didn't feel like he had a fever. Maybe food poisoning, or an allergic reaction of some kind? He was too sick to think about it much.

Whatever the reason, he was still besieged by strong pulses of nausea. A hiccup made acid burn his throat, and he resigned himself to throwing up some more. It came up in thick lumps, plopping loudly into the toilet.

A strand of his hair came perilously close to the flow of vomit, and he quickly pulled it back. He saved his hair but got flecks of slime on his hand in the process.

He rocked with heave after heave, puking up copious amounts of sludge. Surely his stomach was almost empty…

Just as he thought this, a sharp pain in his gut made him double over and spew a forceful flood of thankfully runnier vomit. The big chunks were all up, it seemed. He kept retching up watery slime for several minutes before dry heaves rasped from deep in his aching throat.

At last he sat back to catch his breath and dab puke from his face and hand. Hopefully that was a one-time malady. It felt like he had strained a muscle in his abdomen.

Caldina was standing just behind the king's chair in the banquet hall, still as a statue. She didn't expect any of the guests to attack His Majesty, but as his bodyguard and personal champion she wouldn't dream of leaving him unguarded at such a time.

She noticed that the king was pushing his supper around on his plate more than actually eating any of it. She stepped to the side a little and tried to catch his eye to silently ask if he was feeling all right, but he kept his gaze on the candelabra in the middle of the dining table.

Then he pushed his chair back a few inches, closed his eyes, and went still except for his throat, which bobbed with a hard swallow. He lifted his cloth napkin toward his mouth, then quickly lowered it and stood up. "Pardon me," he said in a slightly shaky voice before he turned and hurried from the room with the napkin held to his lips.

The guests exchanged curious glances, and Caldina heard one whisper something about the monarch looking ill. The crown prince frowned at her and made a tentative move as if to get up. She subtly shook her head, letting him know she would handle it, before slipping out of the banquet hall.

She half-expected to find the king bent over a fresh puddle of vomit, but the corridor was deserted. On a hunch, she headed toward the nearest privy. The door was shut but she heard him coughing wetly inside. She knocked. "Sire, it's just me," she said quietly.

The unmistakable sound of chunky vomit pouring into a bucket was her only answer. She tried the doorknob, but he had locked it. She stood helplessly, listening to her beloved heave himself inside out.

Eventually the door opened. A very pale king was leaning on the counter, panting for breath.

"So much for supper, huh?" she said, putting a comforting hand on his back.

"Ugh," he said emphatically. "I'd been holding that back for nearly an hour. I nearly lost it there at the table."

"Thankfully you didn't. The closest guests noticed you looked ill, but no one was too concerned."

He seemed to having difficulty standing up completely straight, and his frown deepened. "Not done," he muttered as he stooped over the bucket again. Within seconds his jaw opened with a croaking retch. He wrenched his stomach muscles twice more before a lumpy stream of barf ran out of his mouth and splashed into the pail.

"Oh, poor thing," she soothed, patting his heaving shoulders.

He gasped, trembled, then let out a rumbling belch and another flood of partially-digested material.

"It's all right, just get it all up," she said calmly.

The spasms in his gut transitioned to dry heaves soon after. He shuddered and gagged for another couple of minutes before he staggered to the ewer on the counter to rinse his mouth.

"I'll let the guests know you've fallen ill and won't be coming back to the table. Do you think you can make it back to your chambers on your own?"

"Of course," he wheezed. "I'm more than capable of--GURK!" Fruitless retching seized his throat until he spat up a wad of something pinkish-brown into the bucket. "Of being incredibly ill," he finished with a sigh.

"Hang on. I'll go make our excuses and then come back for you."

The tight pain and increasing churning noises from her stomach convinced Shari to pull into a gas station rather than continuing on home. She had accepted the fact that her lunch wasn't going to stay down, but had hoped she could make it to the privacy of her own bathroom before it happened.

The intense waves of nausea assaulting her now left her with no choice, however. Thick saliva flooded her mouth, and the back of her throat felt funny.

She rushed into the ladies' room and found it thankfully empty. She took a stall near the back, locked herself inside, and bent forward with her hands on her thighs. The sight of the less-than-clean toilet was all her body needed to tip the scale.

She began to cough, then belched long and deep. A stream of greenish sludge poured from her mouth and splashed into the water. It only lasted a few seconds, leaving her just as ill as before--if not more so, as now she had a terrible taste in her mouth.

She stood waiting for more to come up, listening to her belly slosh and whine.

Maybe that was enough for now, and she could make it back home before--

A retch lifted her tongue, and she closed her eyes so she didn't have to see more of her former lunch. For several minutes she was stuck in a loop of panting, coughing, throwing up for a few seconds, and then back to panting for breath. It would take forever to empty her stomach this way, but in a cruel contradiction she was too sick to gag herself. Wracking pains in her gut made it impossible to straighten up even if she dared aim her mouth somewhere other than the toilet bowl.

Larger gobs of puke seemed to stick in her throat and made her cough harder, then plunked into the water. She desperately wished she had some water to rinse with, but the sickness wouldn't relent long enough for her to go to the sink.

Her throat burned as scorching vomit surged up again and again.

After over ten minutes of this misery, the material she heaved up began to get more watery. This made it easier to force up, but it tasted even worse than the chunks had.

She still coughed breathlessly every few seconds, occasionally belching just before more barf rose in her throat.

Her chest muscles and abdomen hurt from straining, her nose was running, and she kind of felt like she might need to have a bowel movement.

The bathroom door opened and someone took a few steps inside before the sound of Shari's retching made them stop in their tracks. "Whoa, are you okay?" came a stranger's voice.

What does it sound like? she wanted to ask. Instead she spat out some thick slime and managed to say, "Yeah, I just have a stomach bug. Almost empty, I think." A gag prevented her from further comment, but the other woman apparently was satisfied with this, because she peed and left. "Hope you feel better!" she called as the door shut.

Shari coughed up a smattering of more solid bits of vomit before returning to disgorging mostly liquid.

It was another five minutes, at least, before relief washed over her and she was able to stand up straight. She gave one last flush before taking some toilet paper to blow her noise and wipe her mouth.

A thin stream of slime connected Andres' lips to the curdled mess spattered in the basin Isabel was holding under his chin. Neither of them spoke, as they both knew he wasn't done throwing up. A quiet groan issued from behind his closed lips.

"Let it come," she murmured.

He opened his mouth to say he wasn't trying to fight it, but before words could form he gagged hard. His tongue curled with three more spasms before a forceful gush of sludge blurted out into the basin.

"There you go," she encouraged.

Andres coughed, spraying flecks of vomit onto the far side of the basin. Before Isabel could tell him to be more careful with his aim, his shoulders lurched with a violent heave. He bowed his head closer to the basin and let out a copious flood of runnier puke.

Once that was over, he lifted his head with a shuddering moan. "So sick," he panted.

"I know," she said, shaking her head in sympathy. "Do you think you're done?"

He considered for a moment. "Not sure. Still extremely nauseated."

"Just rest and see what happens."

Yet he made no move to lie down, keeping his gaze on the lumpy barf that sloshed in the basin. A nearly silent gag warned her to keep the container close to his mouth. Sure enough, less than a minute later he let out a startlingly loud retch and a stream of more watery puke. This kept coming without pause for quite some time, but when it finally ended he lifted his head and sighed. "There. Empty."

She sat on the floor in front of the toilet, slowly rubbing her belly and frowning deeply. A few minutes ago she'd been certain she was about to vomit and had rushed into the bathroom. The urge passed without anything coming up, however, and now she didn't dare leave in case it was a brief reprieve.

Her lunch churned almost painfully in her stomach, and she squirmed with the waves of nausea.

Just as she was considering sticking a finger down her throat to end her misery, her throat tightened with a shallow gag. She leaned closer to the toilet seat and drooled away the thick saliva that kept welling up. She coughed wetly, then doubled over with a painful retch. Nothing came up. She rocked with a few more heaves, then suddenly spewed out a thick spurt of vomit. It was over in seconds, flooding her senses with the vile taste.

Knowing she wouldn't feel better until her stomach was empty, she pressed on her abdomen and forced herself to cough a few times. Her body obligingly sent another gush of puke upward. The thick emesis coated her throat, and this time the coughs were involuntary as she hacked and sputtered until another flood of barf went into the toilet. Too late, she realized her hair was loose on one side, and it quickly became coated with peach-and-brown slime. She tried to hold it back, but the feel of vomit on her hand didn't do anything to calm her stomach.

Her output grew more liquid than chunky, and some splashed up to leave spots on the toilet seat. This went on for another minute before the flow dwindled. She gave several long, croaking retches before relief swept over her. She was empty, and was already starting to feel better.

At first she assumed her discomfort was merely indigestion. She had eaten her lunch somewhat quickly to get to the meeting on time.

As she sat quietly listening to her fellow legislators debate shipping regulations, she noticed a faint pain right in the middle of her gut. Did she need to have a bowel movement? No, she decided, it was higher up than that.

Minutes ticked by in which her belly sloshed and turned over, making her briefly close her eyes in response to a pulse of nausea.

I just ate too fast, she told herself. I'll be fine once lunch settles.

Yet she felt steadily worse as time went on, and she suddenly realized her mouth was full of thick saliva that she couldn't imagine swallowing.

Damn, this was turning into something more than indigestion. She laid a hand on her belly and bent forward slightly as a heavy, tight feeling gripped her middle.

The urge to gag made her gulp hard.

I'm actually sick, she realized. Like, "have the flu, might throw up" sick.

She looked around, taking stock of her options. She was near the middle of the assembly hall, so there were no close doors she could sneak out of. There also weren't any garbage cans in reach. That meant she needed to head for the bathroom sooner rather than later.

She sat frozen in nauseated misery, barely breathing, as she waited for the current speaker at the podium to finish up.

She broke into a cold sweat as he droned on and on. Could she spit into her handkerchief and not be noticed? She bent down to hide her head below the table and risked it. A flood of viscous, frothy saliva soaked the square of cloth and ran down her arm. Damn, that didn't go as planned.

Worse, parting her lips made a spike of nausea run through her, and her eyes went wide in panic as she felt her stomach contents congealing at the bottom of her esophagus. For one horrible moment she was sure she was going to throw up right there on the floor, but she somehow managed to choke back the rising tide of sickness.

She had no illusions about this being a true reprieve, though. She needed to get to a toilet, and fast.

She stuffed her papers into her satchel, slung the bag over her shoulder, and walked quickly for the tall doors at the rear of the hall. If the speaker thought her rude, well, she doubted he would prefer her barfing during his talk.

Her belly roiled and gurgled as she walked, and her mouth was already full of bubbly spit again.

Oh please, let me make it to the bathroom, she prayed silently. Her legs felt unsteady and the room seemed to spin slightly around her. Actual pain was squeezing her middle now, and a half-cough, half-gag burst from her throat. Hot liquid began to rise, and she somehow managed to gulp it back.

She reached the doors and fled the hall, breaking into a run as best she could when she could hardly straighten up.

A stronger gag gripped her throat, and she felt vomit start to make its way up again. She pressed her lips together in an attempt to hold it in her cheeks, but after a second she sputtered and retched, letting out a flood of pinkish-brown slime down the front of her blazer and skirt, onto the marble floor. She cupped a hand under her mouth as if that would help, and only succeeded in getting puke all over her hand and arm.

Fuck! she thought.

She stumbled over to a potted plant and aimed into that instead of letting the rest go on the floor. Her body was wracked with violent heaves as she doubled over and spewed copiously. To her humiliation, some overshot the plant's container and painted the wall behind it.

Sonja had the day off from work, and was lazily flipping channels on the TV, looking for something to watch, when her husband came inside. He had only been out working in his vegetable garden for a half hour, but he was terribly pale and seemed to have trouble standing fully upright.

"What's the matter?" she asked immediately.

"Don't feel good," he said with a grimace. He plodded over to the couch and flopped down with a quiet moan.

"I can see that. Your stomach?" she guessed based on the way he was clutching his belly.

He nodded.

Sonja got up from the kitchen table, grabbed the garbage can, and set it on the floor next to his head. "Just in case."

"Thanks," he mumbled, then fell silent.

Sonja returned to channel surfing but kept glancing at him with concern. Gurgles and sloshing noises came from her husband's midsection, and more than once he made sounds of distress.

"Any better?" she asked after ten minutes.

He shook his head. "I think I need to puke."

She made a noise of alarm.

"Don't necessarily feel like I'm gonna," he clarified. "Just that I think it would make me feel better."

"Would something to drink help?"

"Not sure. It hurts so bad, right here…" He pressed his fist into the middle of his torso, squirming in misery.

"Try rubbing where it hurts the most." She watched him haphazardly touching parts of his chest and belly with no apparent order. "Let me help," she finally said. She got up from the table and guided him to sit up on the sofa with the garbage can in his lap. Then she sat beside him and carefully slid a hand down to his abdomen. "Okay, where's the worst pain? Here?"

"Higher."

She tried again.

"Little to the left, and down a couple inches."

She moved her hand, and he flinched. "There. Right there."

Sonja wasn't a doctor but she was pretty sure there were no vital organs there. Moreover, she could tell he was running a fever. Likely just a normal upset stomach, then.

She rubbed slow circles on his belly, and at one point she could even feel his stomach contents churning inside. She kept massaging him, expecting him to begin gagging any second. When he didn't she tried pressing a little harder.

After a minute he burped, but nothing came up.

The third time it happened, Sonja shook her head in pity. "Poor thing. Try thinking of something disgusting. Maybe that will help get it started." She rubbed his belly in steady but firm touches despite his flinches of pain.

"Damn it," he said after a belch that bordered on a retch. "I really need to throw up and get this over with."

"Try gagging yourself."

"I'm no good at that." He rocked with nausea, leaning into her firm massaging.

His mouth opened wider with a dry heave, and a little drool dripped into the can, but that was all. He made a whining noise and forced himself to cough, but nothing else happened.

"Think about how it feels," she coached. "Your stomach rolling over, the hot vomit rushing up your throat and spilling out…"

"I have been," he whined. "It won't come."

"Just try touching the back of your throat."

He did--or at least he tried. He started a few weak retches, but only a tiny trickle of liquid dripped from his lips. "It's right there," he said with a frustrated groan.

"Do you want me to try?"

He stuffed his hand in his mouth even further, and the loudest retch yet rippled out. He doubled over and coughed over the garbage can, but again only a little drool emerged.

"Shit!" he snapped. "How hard is it to make myself puke?"

She simultaneously rubbed his abdomen and patted his back. "There, there. It'll come."

"It's not, though," he whined. "I need to throw up so bad! Ugh!"

"Can I try?" She lightly touched his lips.

He was apparently desperate enough to let her. He let his jaw fall open as wide as it would go and hugged the garbage can under his chin. Sonja carefully slid her hand into his mouth. His tongue arched against her in a dry retch. She went back further and stroked the velvety skin in the back of his throat. She felt him convulse in a heave and snatched her hand away.

Trent gagged several times, harder than ever before, but still only let out a thin stream of cloudy liquid. "Close," he rasped. "Do it again, longer this time."

Sonja took a deep breath and reached into his mouth again. She stretched as far back as she could and stroked down into his throat. He retched every few seconds, but she kept her hand there until she felt a hot rush of thick sludge. She yanked her hand out in the middle of a torrent of vomit that spattered all over the inside of the garbage can.

Trent rocked with vigorous heaves, no longer struggling to bring up his breakfast. Clumps of partially-digested fruit were carried along by more watery barf.

When Sonja was sure he was okay--all things being relative--she went to the sink and washed the unpleasantly warm coating of vomit off her hand and forearm. By the time she was satisfied that she was clean and disinfected, it sounded like Trent was almost done being sick. The stream of gunk was much smaller now, and only the occasional chunk came up.

"There, there," she comforted him, rubbing his back. "You're doing great. Let it come. You'll feel so much better when it's over."

His shoulders jerked upward in a particularly strong retch, and a renewed spurt of thicker vomit coursed out.

Trent coughed, groaned, and spat strings of mostly-clear slime into the can. "Ohh, I really needed to do that."

"I know."

He gave a long, gurgling belch to rid himself of some leftover bile, then finally accepted a tissue from her to wipe his mouth. "Ugh. I wouldn't have eaten so much for breakfast if I knew it was all gonna come back up like that."

"I bet not." She brought him a cup of water to rinse his mouth. "How's the pain now?"

"Gone. I mean, I ache from heaving so hard, but the pains in my stomach are better."

"Good. When you're ready to head to bed, let me know."

He nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "Uh…thanks for the help getting it started."

"I'd never done that before, but you were so desperate that I had to do something. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"No, it worked great. Sorry I puked all over your arm."

"Goes with the territory," she said with a shrug. "And it washed off."

"I just hope you don't catch this."

"If I do, you'll just have to take care of me," she said with a wink.

He nodded wearily and sipped some water.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and glanced at the clock, trying to estimate if her supper would have been digested and moved on from her stomach yet, or if she needed to worry about making a mess if her nausea got worse. She squirmed in bed, making quiet noises of distress.

An ominous gurgling noise made her sit up on the edge of the mattress. She certainly felt sick enough to throw up, if there was anything down there to lose. She reluctantly staggered into the bathroom and stood in front of the toilet, slowly rubbing her tummy. Moving made the pulses of nausea stronger, and she felt her throat clench in the start of a gag.

She went to her knees and aimed into the toilet bowl. She felt so horrible she found herself wishing she did have something in her stomach, after all, as getting rid of it might make her feel better.

Deep, rasping belches issued from her mouth, and she felt acid rising. She pressed in on her belly where the discomfort was the worst, and a spasm grabbed her middle, making her double over with a sputtering cough. Seconds later she retched long and loud without producing anything.

Maybe my stomach is empty after all, she thought with an odd sense of disappointment. She gagged several more times, rocking with the waves of sickness. A sudden sensation like she had been kicked in the gut made her lurch and stick her face below the level of the toilet seat as a hot torrent of vomit exploded forth.

Or maybe I do have something to throw up, after all, she thought.

Wracking heaves quickly brought up everything that been left in her stomach, scorching her throat with acid before finally stopping.

"Phew," she sighed. Aside from her aching abdomen, burning throat, watering eyes, and the vile taste in her mouth, she did actually feel some better now. She blew her nose and wiped her mouth and chin off, then flushed away the remnants of her supper. She rose on rubbery legs to rinse her mouth in the sink.

Doctor Lana smiled when she saw her husband in the doorway of her office, but her expression quickly turned into one of concern when she saw the pale, drawn expression on his face and the way he seemed to be having trouble standing up straight.

"What the matter?" she asked immediately.

Edwin shut the door behind him before flopping down in a chair next to her desk. "Sick."

"I can see that," she snapped without any real malice. "Sick how?"

"Threw up."

"You did? Just now?"

He nodded.

"I'll get an anti-nausea injection ready." She stood, but as she walked past him he grabbed the edge of her coat. "What?"

He looked up at her with pleading eyes while covering his mouth with one hand. "Stay," he mumbled. "Gonna do it again."

He sighed in pity and brought over the garbage can. He took it from her and slumped forward with it between his knees. Bubbly drool oozed out of his mouth and stretched down into the can.

She pulled up a chair beside him and gently patted his shoulder. "It's okay, Ed. Just get the rest up and you'll probably feel better."

He coughed lightly and spat in a vain attempt to dislodge the goo dangling from his lips.

His wife rubbed his broad shoulders a bit more vigorously. "Don't fight it."

"I'm not," he said, then gagged shallowly.

She watched in helpless sympathy as he bent closer to the can with a croaking retch. Only a few droplets of saliva escaped his mouth. He coughed a few times, then shuddered with a baritone heave that quickly send a greenish-brownish-pink flood of puke gushing out.

"There," she said softly, stroking the back of his head.

He gasped, but before he could catch his breath another retch seized his throat. Viscous barf splattered onto the inside of the can and slowly ran down to join the rest in the bottom.

"Wow, you couldn't have thrown up that much before, if you still had all this left down there," she said, shaking her head.

"I didn't," he rasped. "Just a couple mouthfuls. I knew there was more." He half-coughed, half-gagged, and let out a trickle of discolored liquid before sitting up with a sigh.

"Sorry I couldn't help you fast enough," she said, kissing his temple.

"Not your fault," he said hoarsely.

"Sit tight. I'll go get that injection, and some water for you."

He nodded gratefully and sat back with his eyes closed.