Backpacks and Bra Straps by Savannah Grace Page A

lodging in Kyrgyzstan.
    Throughout that day, Bree ran out every so often to use the outhouse again. Once she returned, tear streaked and complaining. “Oh, it was awful.” Shivering with disgust, she continued, “I’d just finished puking, and then I saw all these worms wiggling down there. It was so nasty that I puked all over again.”
    “Oh man,” I said. “I saw them, too. It was unbelievably gross!” I had actually been sick just a couple of days earlier, but I’d handled it completely differently than Bree had. I’d just quietly gotten up in the night and done what I needed to do. As I’d crept out the door, Mom instinctively woke up and asked sleepily, “Are you going to the bathroom?”
    “Kind of. I don’t feel well.” I’d used the outhouse the first time, with its wooden planks and the same kind of worm infestation Bree was complaining about, but I only made that mistake once. I strategically chose isolated corners in the great outdoors from then on.
    When I got back, Mom whispered, so as not to wake the others, “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    “Did you throw up?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That quickly? You feel okay now?”
    “Yeah.” And that was that. I was sick a couple more times, but I don’t think anyone but Mom ever knew. Clearly, it was something Bree and I’d both eaten, though Bree held it off for a couple of days longer than me. This was just one more example of how differently she and I handled stuff.
    “I just have to ask. How could you not make it outside? The door was only five steps in front of you,” I said.
    “I dunno. It just happened. My mouth opened and it all fell out.” Then, feeling as if she was being accused, she defended herself, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I hate puking. It’s the worst thing, ever!”
    “Yeah, we couldn’t help but notice that,” Ammon said.
    “I can’t breathe when it’s happening, and I’ll never be able to do it without crying.”
    “Yeah, we heard that, too,” Ammon said. Thoroughly exasperated now, Bree threw her hands up and fell onto her back on our big cushy bed.
    Later that afternoon, a shadow blocked the light at the doorway and we all turned to look. There was no warning knock before our hosts ducked inside first, followed closely by a man we didn’t recognize. Our hostess spoke not a word of English, but from her gestures, we determined that they’d called him over from another settlement to come check on Bree. There was no hiding her condition with that blanket this morning, let alone the racket she’d made all night.
    Our hosts left us to it, after smiling at Bree and giving her a comforting pat on the back. The local shaman had probably been fetched from over the mountains on horseback. He knelt down next to the short table, wanting to understand Bree’s illness. This was only a minor sickness, but I wondered what would happen if we were seriously ill in such an isolated place where no one spoke English.
    He asked some questions by gesturing. When he inquired if she had diarrhea, she turned to us questioningly, asking if that was indeed what he wanted to know before nodding, “Yes.” He promptly concocted a flower mixture from a bag of natural ingredients and told her to drink it three times a day. Bree tried it and thanked him as she swallowed deeply and forced a stiff smile. We all expressed our appreciation with many thanks and smiles. As soon as he ducked his head out to leave, Bree spat the rest of it out. “Yuck! This isn’t going to help. This is only going to make me throw up again. It’s disgusting.”
    “Even worse than last night’s aftertaste?” I asked.
    “It tastes like dandelions,” she said, glaring into the little cup before thrusting it our way. “Seriously, you have to try it. It’s like drinking strong dandelion stems mixed with this sulphury egg burp. It’s downright nasty.” She cringed, but she took a few more sips. Then she demonstrated what she felt like doing, and it