And then I turn the faucet off and pull some paper towels from the nearest dispenser. As I toss them in the trash, I make out a soft, gasping sound that I first thought was the AC but soon realize is another person in the bathroom.

There are only two stalls, and the doors for both of them are closed, but I don’t see any feet underneath. “Hello?” I say, and yeah, it’s probably a ghost, which makes me the soon-to-die white woman in this situation.

I’m about to bolt from the bathroom before Satan’s wrath can be brought down on me when one of the stall doors opens up and Devin steps out.

“Where the hell have you been?” I ask. “I had to deal with those little demons alone.”

“Sorry,” he says, but it comes out on a little puff of air, and it’s only then that I realize how pale he looks.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

And he nods, but let’s be real, he’s pretty clearly not okay. He kind of hobbles out of the stall and leans on the counter, but his arms are shaking even as he holds himself up.

My first thought is that maybe he has a fever, but when I touch his arm, he feels more cold than he does hot. He doesn’t jerk away from me, but lets me guide him down to a sitting position on the bathroom floor, and for a moment, I’m not even worried about how dirty the place would probably look if I had a UV light and how gross my pants will probably be when I stand up.

His breathing comes out in short, ragged breaths, and I wonder if maybe he has asthma or if he’s having an allergic reaction to someone’s peanut butter sandwich, but other than the sharp inhales and the sweat along his forehead, there doesn’t seem to be anything else wrong with him—no hives, no swollen lips, no purpling face as he takes his last breath.

So I’m basically left with two options—I can go get help, or I can just sit with him and hope he gets better. I’m about to stand and go call for a coordinator, but there’s something in his eyes that looks like fear, and I don’t know if that’s something he wants to keep to himself. Hell, if he wanted me to get help, he would’ve said something when I asked if he was okay, right?

“Devin,” I say, my voice low. “I want to help you, but you have to tell me what to do.”

He laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay.”