Matilda looked at the offered hand, and withdrew from it as though into a shell, arms close to her body lest they be tempted to take the hand and shake it.

“I’m sorry, I’m … I don’t…” She looked at the man with a helpless expression. “I’m sorry.”

Inwardly, Matilda screamed. This was awful on a tremendous scale. She had not mentally prepared herself for conversation.

And yet…

“I… I’m Matilda. Matilda Plum.” She said, the words coming haltingly. They felt strained, tight like a muscle that was being used for the first time after years of atrophy.

She felt like if she just focused right on the person in front of her, she would be able to make it through at least the next few hours without throwing up. She did have any basis for why she should feel this way, and it didn’t feel like the pills. This confidence came too easily. But it was there, all the same, and a budding, unfamiliar voice within her told her if she tried to think about it too much, she would lose whatever this feeling was.

“It’s terrifying,” she said. She chanced a look around the room but had to wrench her eyes back to the person in front of her as her legs started to shake.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up if this doesn’t end soon.”

A thought occurred to her, and she covered her face with her hands.

“Oh god, I really hope I’m not the god of throwing up.”