Arrick hands me water and helps me sit on the bed to take a drink before laying me back down.

“I’m sorry,” I say for the hundredth time since he picked me up, carried me back to bed, and tucked me in. He’s spent the last two minutes sweeping off petals and pushing stuff off the bedside to lay a bowl from my bathroom for me and feels my head with the back of his hand.

“For throwing up? Don’t be … It’s not your fault you’re sick.” He seems odd as he says it, and ...