"Heavenly Father! Forgive me. I shouldn't have given the patient stimulating herbal tea." The Priest hurried over when he heard the commotion. He didn't notice the mess on the table as he helped turn the patient onto his side and pounded hard on his back.
Blindly trying things did nothing but make Dominic cough up more stomach acid.
Fortunately, the young man's sturdy constitution let him hold on until the violent vomiting eased. His chest heaved as he dragged in terrifying, whistling breaths, punctuated by a series of irregular coughs and gasps.
The two helpless onlookers were completely at a loss. They let Dominic thrash around on the floor for a while until, after struggling against his body's reflexes, he managed to regain a steady breathing rhythm.
He had survived—for now.
Feld's outstretched hand froze in midair, unsure what to do. He feared that moving Dominic carelessly might cause further injury, but the young man's current state was also so wretched that it stirred an instinctive fear of severe illness.
Still, conscience overcame their instinctive revulsion. They stripped off Dominic's filthy outer garment, dragged him to a dry spot, and wiped his face.
Only then did they realize he was still conscious. His gaze followed the Priest as he moved, and he clutched the man's wrist with a trembling hand, gripping it with a strength that didn't seem possible for a sick person.
The owner of the Church flung his hand back in fright, but somehow couldn't break free.
A faint, broken repetition of words squeezed through Dominic's lips, stretched wide like those of a dehydrated fish.
Leaning down to listen, they realized he wasn't calling for help.
"Where did they go..."
The words were hollow yet unyielding, like a drowned corpse beneath the ice, tapping its fingernails again and