You squeeze Jasper's hand absently, the sound of his dress shoes clacking against the pavement echoing through the parking garage.

He squeezes back.

You peek up at him and note the way his normally golden skin has paled and taken on a grayish quality. He hasn't been himself this week. He's retreated and become an ornery shell of the man you know.

you hear the jangle of his keys in his opposite pocket and see the lights on his Volvo flash ahead of You. A dry sob heaves up in his chest, and your chin darts up higher to look closely at him.

"What's wrong, Jas?" you squeeze three times in quick succession on his hand, but he doesn't squeeze back this time.

He stops in his tracks, shuttering his eyelids. His nostrils narrow as he desperately sucks air in through them. Then he jerks his hand from yours. Violently enough that you recoil in shock. With long steps, he lurches past you toward a thick pillar and empties his stomach onto the pavement.

He stands, panting, strong fingers gripping the pillar, as air pulls and pushes in and out through his diaphragm.

you want to ask him if he's okay, but that's a stupid question right now. He's clearly not okay. Figuring the best you can do is make yourself useful, you open the back hatch of his SUV and dive into a hockey bag, on the hunt for a bottled water or a wipe or a towel, or literally just anything to clean him up.

A plastic Gatorade pull-top sports bottle is the best you can find, along with a towel that smells like something dead.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, grabbing them and zipping the bag up quickly because the entire thing stinks.

"Sorry," you hear from behind you.

"For what?" You squeeze water onto the towel and walk toward him.

"Getting sick."