I pull her off the toilet. “Nadia?” I lightly smack her cheek to bring her around. “Nadia?”
She finally stirs. “Dalton?”
Shit. She’s weak as a kitten.
The floor is filthy, so I pull off my shirt and lay it on the ground. Then I carefully pry her off the toilet to rest on top of my shirt.
Her hair fans out. She’s pale. Her eyes flutter. “So sick.”
I feel her pulse. Slow. Her skin is clammy.
I use my phone as light and check her pupils. They react normally. So she’s probably not drugged. Just too much booze.
I sigh in relief. “How much did you have?”
Tears leak out of her eyes. Her mascara is smeared.
A hefty man bursts into the bathroom to loom over us. “What the fuck, man?”
“Call an ambulance,” I tell him. “Right now. She’s weak from throwing up. She’ll need an IV, maybe her stomach pumped. Her pulse is low.”
“Are you a doctor or what?”
I gesture to my pants scrubs. “Yes.” Every long shift is worth it, because I’ve seen a lot of people like Nadia. I know what to do.
The man looks us over, Nadia on the floor. “Shit.” He punches on his phone.
A woman with a riot of black braids peers in. “Can I help?”
“Could you wet some paper towels?”
She hurries toward the sinks.
“She’s not dead, right?” the man asks.
Jesus. “No, she’s not dead.”
“Sorry, is she yours?”
“She’s my roommate.”
The man talks into the phone, then nods at me. “Ambulance is coming.”
I check Nadia’s pulse again. Still weak and slow. It seems like the vomiting is done.
I hadn’t pegged her for a party girl.
Another woman bursts into the bathroom. She’s pregnant. “Nadia?” she calls. “Are you in here? You’ve been gone—” She spots us, and her hand covers her mouth. “Nadia!”
She kneels next to us. “What happened?”
“She called me. She was throwing up.”
“Is she okay? She doesn’t look okay!”
“She’s all right. We’ve called an ambulance.”
“Oh my god!” She clutches her belly. “Oooh!”
