“Lou?” I stroked her head. She didn’t respond. “Get some sleep now,” I said. “That will help.”

I sat down on my own bed. Looked at her. But she didn’t move.

I lay down. On my side, facing her. I stared at her the whole time. It felt like it was important that I not take my eyes off her.

She was breathing calmly. Was she asleep?

It was quiet in the hall. I heard only the low voices of the Spaniards outside. One of them laughed again. Right now I wished they would be quiet. Their laughter drowned out the sound of Lou breathing.

I lay facing her until my own eyes also slid shut.

“Daddy!”

“Yes?”

I came around. It was dark. Completely silent.

“I feel nauseous.”

And then, before I could do anything about it, the sound came that is worse than any other sound, the sound of a child retching. Half-strangled croaks, underlined by tears. The most painful sound in the world.

She vomited in her bed. It landed on everything. The bedclothes. Her hair. Our clothing.

“Get up,” I said. “Quickly.”

She got to her feet, sobbing weakly, and stood between our beds, trembling. But she was unable to speak. She retched again. But only halfway. More like a gulp. Nothing came out. But it would come.

A bucket, dammit, we needed a bucket. I looked around me. The water bottle. My knapsack in the cupboard. An empty water glass. There was nothing here that I could use.

“Quick. Out,” I said, taking hold of her.

But it was too late. She raised her hands, held them in front of her face, and caught what came out. The second round of vomit covered her fingers. Her arms.

“Lean over,” I said. “Spit up on the floor. We can clean up afterward.”

Obediently she bowed her head and upper body down toward the concrete floor. Another round of vomiting was on its way. I could see the struggle in her body, building up through small spasms.

And then yet another torrent of vomit flew out of her mouth, vomit that had once been food. I recognized the yellow color from some dry crackers she’d eaten that afternoon.

An intense acidic smell.

She retched again and again.

Finally nothing more came out. Just some long strings of slime hung from her mouth.

I found a roll of toilet paper and wiped it away, helped her blow her nose. There was vomit there too.

She was crying. Painful, desperate crying, while her entire little body shook.

“It’s because of the rag,” she sobbed. “I sucked on it.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “No, I’m sure it’s not because of that.”

But she cried, sobbing loudly.

“Shhh, it’s fine, Lou. It will be fine.”

I stroked her hair, her cheeks. Tried to avoid getting too much vomit on my hands. Everything smelled sour.