“Then, we should go.” Tommy was neither dead nor capable of carrying on a conversation. Also, the room stank to high heaven.

Tommy groaned a second time and leaned his head over the side of the bed.

On occasion, Henry had drunk to excess. I knew what came next. “Anarchy, you might want to—”

My warning came too late. Tommy threw up on Anarchy’s Chuck Taylors.

And my big, strong, fearless husband squealed like a five-year-old girl.

I grabbed his elbow and pulled him away from the mess. There was a decent chance Tommy might vomit again.

Every other man here wore loafers or boat shoes with their shorts. Not Anarchy. I wondered, briefly, how Anarchy felt about conducting an investigation while wearing khaki shorts, a golf shirt, and sneakers. They were a far-cry from his usual dark pants and plaid jacket. At least the canvas shoes would be easy to rinse. Anarchy pointed at his sneakers, and his mouth opened and shut without forming actual words.

My husband, who could face down a gun-wielding killer, break a hardened criminal in an interrogation room, and generally acted like a superhero, was rendered mute by puke.

“I know.” I gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “It’s gross. I also know Tommy won’t be answering any questions right now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“He threw up on me.”

“It happens.” Ask any mother. We survived spit-up, stomach flu, and teenagers who discovered the liquor cabinet. We washed countless towels and sheets and scrubbed more commodes than we could shake a toilet brush at.

“Not to me.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” I tugged on him, and we stepped into the sunlight.

Anarchy looked down at his shoes (the bright light wasn’t doing them any favors) and his skin took on a worrisome greenish pallor.

Oh, dear Lord. “Don't.”

He frowned at me. “Don’t what?”

“Sympathy vomit.”

“That happens?” He looked horrified. And green.

“Kick off your shoes,” I instructed.

“And then what?”

“I’ll wash them off.”

“They’ll be wet.”

“You can wear a different pair. Do it.”

He kicked off the sneakers, and I moved them a good twenty feet away from him. “Wait here.” I hurried back to our cabin, grabbed Anarchy’s boots and a clean pair of socks, then returned to my husband. “Put these on.”

He complied. “Now what?”

“We go to the barn.”

“Why?”

“Wash stall,” I explained.

He stared at me for long seconds. “You’re very resourceful.”

He was just now figuring that out? “You’re very squeamish.” I picked up his sneakers and held them far from my body, and we walked toward the barn. The poor man still looked a bit green, as if he might lose those cinnamon rolls at any moment. We needed a distraction. “What did you learn this morning?”