I look at Santino, who was standing by the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. My hand feels wet from the all washing I did in the restroom.

I move closer to him and touch his arm. My fingers feel cold against his warm skin. I force my voice to shake just a little bit. "Santino," I whisper. "The air in here is making me feel so nauseous. I think I need to go home. I can't stand the smell of the medicine anymore. It makes my stomach turn."

Santino turns his dark eyes toward me. He searches my ...