"I owe you big time." Katherine calls out weakly from her bed.
"Don't be silly. You don't owe me anything." You stand at the doorway and watch her. A garbage can sits between her legs as her back presses against the headboard. Her eyes are throbbing, but she lifts her head off the wall and opens them just enough to look at you, a fragile smile on her face.
"Thank you." You smile back and nod. She dry heaves for the umpteenth time that day, and you try to hide your cringe at the pain she's going through. "Do you have your notebook with you? The recorder? And the questions…?"
"Yes, yes and yes. Don't worry, Katie, it's gonna be fine. I promise." Your best friend harrumphs, pale as the sheets spread around her. All of a sudden an alarmed look crosses her face and she jumps out of bed, almost knocking into you in her haste to get to the bathroom.
There is definitely never a good time to get sick.
The stomach flu had made quick work of Kate's defenses last night and hadn't given her a break since. After weighing her options, she'd decided it would be best to send someone to do this interview in her stead; after all, she'd waited nine months for it. You know next to nothing about journalism, but her usual team was unavailable and she ended up begging you for help. You finally succumbed, and sat for hours taking notes as she coached you through an impromptu intensive course as best she could in her state. Honestly, you could never say no to her. Not with those soft green eyes, usually so playful and stubborn, now red-rimmed and guilt-ridden. She knew you had finals, an essay to finish and work this afternoon. But you also knew the student newspaper, and therefore her extracurricular grade, was depending on this. So you could do this for her. You could do this, right?
You tap your fingernail against your right incisor, slightly unnerved at the prospect of leaving your comfort zone. Biting your lip, you pick up your small leather satchel, checking its contents one last time before giving yourself a quick onceover in the mirror. Yes, you were going for a more serious look, but with that frilly floral blouse you just remind yourself of the elderly woman next door who keeps shouting at her TV set at three in the morning. Plus, that ponytail looks a bit too childish to be tasteful, and you know it. Sighing, you go to your room, changing into a pair of dark jeans, a simple white button up shirt, black blazer and matching ballerinas. Once again staring at the mirror, you morph your ponytail into a side braid, brushing your somewhat uneven bangs to the right. I shouldn't have slept with it wet, you chastise yourself, patting down a rebellious strand at the back.
You head over to the bathroom door and knock.
"Katie? I'm leaving. I left you some chicken soup with rice on the counter in case you get hungry. Oh, and there's a bottle of cranberry juice and some Aquarius in the fridge. And please call me if you need anything."
You wait for the weak "thank you" before heading out the door.