Franz woke at dawn to the sound of retching.
The space beside him in the bed was empty, the sheets already cooling. He was on his feet before he was fully awake, crossing the bedroom in three strides, pushing open the bathroom door. The light was on, harsh and white against the morning dimness, and Arianne was hunched over the sink, her hands gripping the porcelain edges as if they were the only things keeping her upright.
She was throwing up. Her whole body convulsed with the force of it, her shoulders shaking, her knuckles white. The sound was raw and painful. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. Her face was pale, almost gray, and when she finally stilled and lifted her head, her eyes were glassy with exhaustion.
