He looks around for a trash can and scoops it up and holds it out for her just as she shoves her face into it. It’s hard to tell if she’s coughing or throwing up. The sound is in between, as much hacking as heaving. A disgorgement. There is a thick, heavy splatter. He looks away as she retches and gags and wheezes for a good minute. Then she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He almost mentions the time two years ago that she nudged him awake with her foot as he lay snoring on the floor of the lab but refrains.

She walks unsteadily to the sink and runs the water and drinks from the faucet and swirls the water in her mouth and spits. Then she soaps up her hands and rips off a paper towel and pats herself dry. She is moving at quarter speed, so all of this takes a very long time.

“I’ve been feeling bad all morning. But I just went from bad to . . .” She blows out a steadying breath. “I don’t even know.”

“It’s flu season. Better head home. Rest up.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Better.”

“Do you want a ride? Or can I call you an Uber?”

“No,” she says. “No, I’ve got my car. I’m just a short drive away.”

“You’re sure? I’m happy to—”

“I’m sure,” she says, but her voice is weak and raspy as she gathers her purse, leaving behind her backpack and the mess of field samples. She pauses in the doorway, resting against the frame. “Can you . . .”

“Whatever it is, yes. Just say the word.”

“Extension called. They need someone to . . . there’s a tree farm in the Olympics . . . and . . .”

“They’re requesting a fungal consult?”

“Yeah.”

“Done.”

The extension office, a branch of the U, offers free classes and consultations and presentations to the state. Through them, his lab has fielded requests from sources as varied as museums, farms, and nursing homes. “The call sheet with the date, time, and address is on the . . .” She motions toward the bulletin board beside him, and he pulls down the notice.

“Got it.” The address on the sheet instantly catches his attention. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Not nothing. Not really. But he’s not going to get into it with her. “Now go. Go. Get better.”

But she’s already gone, the door clicking shut.

He runs his thumb along the address and smears the ink. He hasn’t been back to that neck of the woods for a long time. Not since the U.S. Forest Service auctioned off the parcel of land where his daughter had vanished. A tree-farm company has moved in since, harvesting the mature timber and planting rows of noble and Douglas firs in the clear-cuts for the Christmas market.