I do a double take because I can’t fathom being able to fall asleep again after the bridge. But Kayla is groggy and disoriented. She doesn’t look good. She’s pale and shaking, her forehead sweaty. She looks twice as sick as I feel.

I tilt my head, which isn’t hurting the way it was before. My stomach is settling, too. But Kayla looks much worse. Like she has a fever. Maybe the flu.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, but her eyes are darting nervously around the car, and she doesn’t look fine. She doesn’t look anywhere near fine.

She fumbles with the latch several times before managing to push the door open. Then she ambles toward the station, following the boys. She’s almost as slow and awkward as Josh on his crutches.

“That girl is weird,” Harper says the moment she’s out of sight. Then she turns to me, still holding the phone. Her brows scrunch in concern. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m better,” I say, still watching Kayla. “Do you think Kayla is sick?”

“Carsick like you?” she asks.

“Maybe bubonic plague sick,” I say. “She looks terrible. And she’s slept most of this trip. Do you think she has something?”

“I don’t know,” Harper says, watching her. “Maybe.”

Josh holds the door for Kayla, who shuffles into the station. He follows her in, and the door closes behind them, mostly blocking my view. It looks like they stop briefly near the register, chatting. Maybe they’re looking for the bathrooms. Or maybe Josh is asking Kayla if she has Ebola because she looks like she’s about to fall over dead.

Ugh, this is exactly what I need. I’m stuck in a car on Christmas Eve, and I’m riding shoulder to shoulder with Typhoid Mary.

“You sure you’re okay?” Harper asks. “We’ve got a lot of mountains left. That won’t be easy if you’re nauseated.”

“I know. Maybe I’ll get a bottle of water.”

“I feel responsible for you,” she says, her eyes full of sadness. “I brought you here, Mira. This was my plan, and now you’re sick and probably scared to death.”

“I’m fine, really,” I say, uncomfortable with this, with her kindness altogether. Why was she so nice to me on the plane? I’m pretty sure I’m not giving off little lost orphan vibes here.

“I’m sorry,” she says, clearly picking up on my unease. She adjusts her phone to the other ear—still waiting. “You just…you remind me of someone.”

I look back at the gas station, because I don’t really want to ask about this person. Whoever I remind her of isn’t here dealing with this mess. “Well, I chose to be here. You were really nice to let me tag along, but the choice was all mine.”