As I waited outside, every second stretching into an eternity, listening for any sound, any indication. The silence was deafening.
When she finally emerged, minutes later, her face was even paler, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her upper lip. She looked utterly drained.
"Are you running a fever?" I asked, my voice taut with concern. "Did you throw up?"
"No," she said, not quite meeting my eyes. "I didn't. I just felt like it. It's probably what I ate for lunch."
I didn't believe her, not entirely, but I let it go. Arguing would only drain her further. In the car, the silence was thick with my unspoken concern. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near hers. Occasionally, I'd glance over. She was staring out the window, her profile soft in the fading light.
When we finally pulled up at the gate, I slowed, scanning the property automatically, then looking back at her. I made one last attempt.
