Arrick hands me a glass of water in bed and sits on the edge to look at me. He seems calmer than when we first got in and practically dumped me in here to high-tail it to the bathroom. My boy is a bit of a germaphobe with certain things, and vomit touching him seems to turn him from manly caretaker to cringing nauseated man-child.

“Feeling better?” He smiles, looking fresh and clean from the very long shower in which he probably bleached his skin to death. It wasn’t exactly my ...