She closes her eyes, groans, and clutches at her stomach.

“Oh, hey, here.” I grab the vomit tub from the table and lay it on her lap. She holds it to her chin for a few minutes, dry heaving, but nothing comes. A few strands of saliva web her lips. Finally, she lies back into her pillow.

“Water?” I ask.

She shakes her head. Her eyes are closed. After a few minutes, I wonder if she’s fallen asleep again.

“Why are you all wet?” she asks.

I take her iPod out of my pocket and set it on her lap. “I was listening to this outside. I … I really like your playlists.”

Somehow I know she’s not going to be mad.

I pick the iPod back up and put it in her hand, and for a second we’re both holding it. The purple under her eyes is the color of survival. For a second we both have our hands on the earbuds.

She smiles, then she looks sad. Her throat bobs. “I was gonna make a new playlist. For this trip. But I…”

Her hands tighten around the hospital blanket. She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to.

Ruth is here. All of her, all of her happy and sad music, good and bad signs. And all of me is here too.

I will keep hoping for good things. Magic and gold things. I will pray for strong rigging.

“I wanna show you something,” I say.

My camera bag is on the counter, above the cupboards with tongue depressors and more plastic throw-up tubs and all the other patient-room supplies. I slide my camera from the bag and when I head back toward the bed, Ruth scoots over and pats a tired hand on the blanket. I sit next to her.

I click through the display screen until I find the picture I’m looking for. I angle it toward Ruth.

“Your hands holding the concert program,” I say.

Her eyelids blink slowly, but she says, “Hey, that’s cool. I like the stage curtains in the background.”

I point to the bottom corner of the program, to tiny letters that say New Orleans.

“Something New,” I say.

Ruth’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak.

I click through to the picture of Ned the sea turtle. Again I show Ruth. “Something Old.”

She stares at the picture. She taps a finger on Ned’s green nose.

“That rattlesnake bridge I was asking Ellie about?” I say. “That was going to be Something Magic. And for Something Gold, a picture of the two of us holding our treasure box.”

Ruth’s hand rests on the camera.

“You did the … This is why you wanted to take pictures at that graffiti so bad,” she says.

I nod.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

I think of all the things I said to her tonight. “I’m sorry too,” I say.