After dishing up some käsespätzle, Germany’s answer to cheesy pasta, and having the chef make me pronounce the name of it over and over again until I got it right, I grabbed a bottle of beer, and I made myself comfortable in my usual dark corner. The chef made me repeat the name of every meal every single time. I guess it was his way of trying to teach me his language. It was working … sort of.

The spätzle burnt my tongue, but it was yummy. I was starting to develop an appreciation for German cuisine; it was pretty much the only sort of food the chef cooked for the troops. I took a swig of beer to cool my mouth and almost spat it out when Sunil came sauntering in as though he always ate there. He even stopped and chatted with a few of the mercs who were playing cards. He slapped their backs and shared some jokes as though they were old buddies.
What the actual fuck was he playing at?

I watched as he looked around the room, almost as if he was looking for someone or something. He was also still sweating and looked paler than usual. When he spotted me, he nodded in my direction, disentangled himself from his conversation, and made his way over.

“Have you seen Mannheim?” he asked without any kind of preamble. No hello, no nothing.

“No,” I said. “Why would he be here? He’s probably at Olga’s cottage.”

Olga had her own three-bedroom house on the grounds, complete with herb garden and ivy creeping up the walls. The doctor had practically moved in with her since we got back from Siberia.

“He’s not there, and she doesn’t know where he is,” he said, sounding worried.

“Have you checked the lab?”

“First place I looked.”

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You look a little green.”

“That’s why I need to find him,” he said as he braced himself against my table. “Something is very wrong.”

After uttering those words, he sunk to his knees and started throwing up all over my running shoes.

It was fucking disgusting.

I’m a sympathetic vomiter. If you throw up in front of me, my gag reflex is triggered. I think it’s the smell. So while Sunil wretched, I tried really hard to be sympathetic to his plight while not blowing chunks myself. I somehow doubted my Spätzle would taste as good the second time around.

It was when I noticed the blood in his puke that my disgust made way for real concern. Seeing Sunil like that was shocking. I’d always seen him as the tough warrior who beat the crap out of me every day, not the vulnerable man I saw curled up on the ground at my feet.

“Help me!” I screamed at some of the soldiers who’d stood up to gawk. “We need to get him to the infirmary.”