THAT'S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR
Part 2
Arriving at the house, Terry got out of her car. With her arms full of groceries, she made her way to the porch and rang the doorbell. "Charlie?" she called out
"It's unlocked," he weakly replied.
Terry quickly set one of the bags on the porch and pushed open the door. "Charlie?"
He was still on the couch curled up on his left side clutching his stomach. "Feel so sick," he moaned.
She wasn't sure if he meant he was sick with the stomach flu or going to be sick. Not wanting to take any chances, she said, "Just hang on a minute, Charlie" and hurried toward the kitchen in search or a bucket anything he could throw up in. Grabbing a small wastebasket, she made it back to the couch just in time.
With a groan, Charlie leaned over the side of the couch and threw up, bringing up mostly bile. Once he was finished, he sank back on the cushions and whispered, "Sorry about that."
"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry about. We're friends, right?" She watched him slowly nod. "And friends help each other."
"Even when they throw up?" he asked, the briefest hint of a smile playing about his lips until it was abruptly obscured by a grimace of pain.
"Even when they throw up," the FBI agent confirmed. "I'm going to get you some water to rinse your mouth out, okay." She lightly touched his forehead, brushing back the damp curls. And taking note of how hot his skin felt.
"Okay," he replied. He watched her stand up and head for the kitchen.
Terry quickly returned a cup of water and a damp cloth in her hands. His high fever and the way he was positioned were vaguely familiar and it troubled her. "Can you sit up a little and take the cup?" she asked.
Charlie struggled to sit up a little but it was obvious that the movement brought on more pain. Taking the cup with shaking hands, he allowed some of the water to trickle into his mouth. He swished it around for a moment in a futile attempt to get rid of the sour taste before spitting it back into the cup.
Terry took the cup and set it aside and as Charlie settled back onto his side, she placed the damp cloth on his forehead. Then pulling the ottoman to the side of the couch she sat down and asked, "Charlie, when did you first begin feeling sick?"
"This morning…at work….Thought I have the…stomach flu," the young man replied. He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. "W-where's Don?"
"I'll get him, Charlie. But first you need to be taken care of. I have just one more question for you. "Where is the pain the worst?"
"Hurts...all over…Lower right side," he replied.
Terry said quietly thinking for a minute before she spoke. "Charlie, I think this is more than just a bad case of stomach flu. Everything seems to indicate appendicitis and you need to get to a hospital right away. Now I'm going to call 911." She patted his shoulder. "It's going to be all right."
"Sick," he suddenly whispered and leaned over retching.
She waited until he was finished and helped him lie back. Then she pulled out her phone to request an ambulance. Once she finished the conversation, she hung and said, "They'll be here soon, Charlie. I'm going to need to call your dad and let him know."
"He has…his cell…Don can tell you…number." He clutched his stomach tighter moaning in pain.
Terry sat by his side stroking his forehead and waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
