Chapter Six!

Chapter 6

Seeing Camila looking, for lack of a better word, dead, made Josh feel awful. So naturally, he volunteered to take her home and look after her for the night at Randy's insistence, and much to Guthren's displeasure.

Now, sitting in her driveway, he was scrubbing vomit out of every crevice of the leather interior of his 1982 Camaro. As much as he cared for Camila, he couldn't possibly care for anyone this much.

Pretty sure he got the rest out, he closed the passenger side door and grabbed the bucket of soapy water, pouring its contents on Camila's lawn.

He tiptoed inside her tiny house, drying out the bucket. On his way to return it to her bathroom, he poked his head into her bedroom.

She literally looked green in the face, like she might blow up at any moment. Duh, he thought, if she's gonna blow up, she isn't gonna make it to the bathroom. He sat the bucket on her bed, taking one last careful look at her.

She had sprawled herself on her twin bed as soon as she came in contact with it, so her head was at the opposite end of her pillows. Her legs were straddled in a very uncomfortable looking position, and her arms were hanging over the sides. She had gathered some blankets as a makeshift pillow, and still had her heels and work clothes on.

He went back out into the living room, turning on her very nice plasma screen television, which he knew was a graduation gift from her parents. He found a good movie on FX, and watched it from start to finish, along with two others.

Why had he volunteered to babysit her for the night, anyway? Yes, Randy had insisted someone stay with her at all times in case it turned into something else, and of course, she is a doctor, but why had he....

His thoughts were rudely interrupted his cell phone ringing; Guthren, according to the caller ID.

"Yeah," he answered in a whisper.

"That is not a very professional way to answer your phone, Special Agent Chinora," said the director's voice.

"Uh, sorry. I was expecting Guthren, that's all. How may I help you, Director?" he asked, a little bit above a whisper this time.

"I was wondering how Camila is doing," she answered.

He got up to go check on Camila again, but was surprised to see that she was standing outside her bedroom door, shoes off, a slight smile on her face, oddly enough. "She's still sleeping, but she looks pretty green," he lied.

"Okay, tell her to give me a call on Guthren's cell when she awakes," she ordered, then the line disconnected.

"Good morning," he greeted her, "do you remember what happened?"

Refresh my memory," she mutterred, shuffling to the living room, arms crossed tightly across her chest, and plopped on the couch.

"Well, you were sick and you looked completely out of it, and you still look sick, by the way. Randy insisted someone take you home and stay with you, so I said I would. You puked in my Camaro, but it's all right. You've been asleep since we got home around sevenish," he explained.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry about your car!" she exclaimed in a hoarse voice.

"It's not just a car, Camila, it's a 1982 Chevrolet Camaro. Do you want to go back to bed?"
"No. Yes. I don't know. What time is it?" she asked, laying down on the couch, yawning.

"Three AM," he answered, glancing at the digital clock on the DVD player and sitting beside her.

"You've been up all this time?" she asked, and when he nodded, she said," Go to sleep, I'll be fine."

"Okay, but I'd like it if you fell asleep closer to the bathroom. And not where I'd planned on sleeping."

She nodded again, got up, and headed back to her bedroom. He watched her, then collapsed on the couch, exhausted.