The rookie Groupchat

Mr And Mrs Babysitter Pt3

Tim Bradford:
How are they doing?

Angela Lopez:
Jack and Emmy are both doing so much better. No more throwing up, crying, and their fevers are way down.

Wesley Evers:
Jack's back to building his Lego fortress, and Emmy's demanding snacks like a tiny dictator.

Tim Bradford:
That's good... but I've got some bad news.

Angela Lopez:
What happened?

Tim Bradford:
Lucy. She's... not doing well.

Wesley Evers:
Wait, what's wrong with her?

Tim Bradford:
She caught it. The same thing Jack and Emmy had. And it's hitting her way harder.

Angela Lopez:
Oh no. What do you mean?

Tim Bradford:
She's shivering, coughing, barely able to keep her eyes open. She got up to change earlier, and she looked like she was about to collapse. I think she's just running on sheer willpower at this point.

Wesley Evers:
That's horrible...

Tim Bradford:
Yeah. And the worst part? She's been vomiting non-stop. Jack and Emmy both, back to back, and it's all over her clothes. She went through every clean outfit in the apartment.

Angela Lopez:
Oh my God.

Tim Bradford:
Yeah. She's down to wearing my hoodie. It's hanging off her like a giant rag, and I'm pretty sure it's the only clean thing left.

Wesley Evers:
Poor thing.

Tim Bradford:
I'm trying to take care of her, but she's barely conscious at this point. The kids were throwing up on her one minute, and she was cleaning it up—with her bare hands—the next minute. It's like she was on autopilot.

Angela Lopez:
I feel awful. We didn't mean for this to happen...

Tim Bradford:
I know, but she's being way too stubborn. She wouldn't even take a break, kept pushing through for you guys.

Angela Lopez:
What? She didn't even text me?

Tim Bradford:
Nope. She was too busy trying to keep the two of them from drowning in their own vomit. And at one point, I caught her—she was standing in the hallway, pale, looking like she was about to faint.

Wesley Evers:
This is a disaster.

Tim Bradford:
Yeah, well, she's still trying to take care of them. She's been stuck in the bedroom with both kids, still keeping them entertained between throwing up sessions.

Angela Lopez:
What about clothes? She must be miserable.

Tim Bradford:
You have no idea. She's out of clean clothes, so she's wearing mine... and they definitely don't fit her. She looks like a kid trying to wear her dad's jacket.

Angela Lopez:
Oh my God, this is all our fault.

Wesley Evers:
We'll make it up to her, I swear.

Tim Bradford:
Good. Because I'm honestly not sure how much more she can take. She keeps telling me she's fine, but I can tell she's barely hanging on.

Angela Lopez:
We'll make sure she's taken care of, Tim.

Wesley Evers:
And the medical bills. She's getting whatever she needs.

Tim Bradford:
I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about her right now. She looks like she's about to pass out at any minute.

Angela Lopez:
I can't believe this.

Tim Bradford:
You better believe it. And, just so you know, Lucy is going to demand an unlimited supply of soup, tea, and medicine when this is over.

Wesley Evers:
We'll send her whatever she wants.

Tim Bradford:
Good. Because I've got a feeling she's going to demand it for months to come.

Angela Lopez:
Just keep an eye on her, okay? We'll be there as soon as we can.

Wesley Evers:
And we owe you big time.

Tim Bradford:
You owe her big time. I'm just the guy trying to stop her from vomiting on every surface in this apartment.

Angela Lopez:
You're a saint, Tim.

Tim Bradford:
I'm not a saint. I'm just a guy who's holding his sick girlfriend in his arms, trying not to breathe in the smell of puke. But, sure. I'm a saint.

Wesley Evers:
We'll be in touch. And, Tim, if you need anything—

Tim Bradford:
I need Lucy to stop throwing up. That's about it.

Angela Lopez:
Good luck.