21
One week is up.
Kate hands me the mug. I sniff it. There’s a dread bubbling up in my stomach at the thought of throwing up again. By now I should be used to it, but I suppose t*****e is worse when you know it’s coming, no matter how many times you suffer.
It slides down my dry, swollen throat like damp sandpaper. I lean over the bucket as my stomach fills, and wait for the flood of vomit to burst out.
Breathing deeply, I stare at the bottom of the empty bucket, and then up at Kate. Her nervous eyes peer down at me, waiting to rub my back, to tell me that it’s time to give up.
A minute passes.
And another.
I listen as my gut rumbles and churns—but still no puke. It’ll come though. It’s just a little slow, that’s all.
Another minute passes and still nothing.
Frowning, I lift my h
