There was a stirring in the back. Barney, of course. “Mom?” he said.

She would have to come up with a way to explain this. We’re going to visit your grandparents. We’re going on a road trip. It’s an American summertime tradition! She couldn’t frighten them. She had to pick her words so, so carefully.

“Yes?” Delilah said. “I’m right here, babe.”

There was a noise. A yelp, a bark, a splutter, a splash. A stink. A strangled cry. Delilah inhaled sharply. Oh no! No! Yes—again a retching sound, a spewing forth. Barney was sick. He was vomiting. He had thrown up all over the back of the car, all over his legs, all over Chloe’s legs. Oh God, the stench. He was gagging or choking—half a gallon of 7-Up or whatever toxic green elixir he’d ordered, two pounds of popcorn floating in coconut oil, chunks of red licorice. Delilah had long suspected that Twizzlers were made out of plastic and were therefore indigestible.

“Mom!” he cried out.

“I’m right here,” she said. “We’re stopping.” She pulled off at the next exit, where there was a Holiday Inn. They were in the town of Cobleskill. Delilah told herself this was okay. She would not panic.

She parked the car and turned around. Puke everywhere. Oh God, the minivan. It would never be the same. Barney was covered with radioactive goo; he was crying. She wanted to hug him, hold him, wash him, throw his clothes away, tuck him into a clean bed. But he had to wait. But he was only six. Could he wait?

“I have to leave you here. I’ll be right back. I am going in that door right there to get us a hotel room and then I’ll be back, okay?”

“No!” he howled. He was sobbing. Her baby. Her darling. She could not leave him even for the ten minutes it would take to check into the hotel.

Drew opened his eyes. He said, “Go ahead, Mom. You get us a room. I’ll stay here with Barn.”

Delilah did not wait to see if this offer was satisfactory to Barney. She hopped out of the car and hightailed it inside. She seemed to have brought the funky, underbelly-of-the-movie-house smell with her. Barney had puked in her hair.

It would be Murphy’s Law that during the times when you most needed a capable front-desk person to expedite your hotel check-in—at midnight, say, when you had a barfing child in the car—what you ended up with was an incompetent moron. The dude moved in slow motion, exactly like the fake-out trick the Vunderkids used against the villains. Delilah was so fatigued that for a second she became confused. Was this actually part of the movie she had just not-watched? The guy was lanky and had the wispy, flyaway hair of a mad professor. He was a sallow yellow color with even yellower teeth, and his nose was as big as a wedge of cheese. His name tag said “Lonnie,” a sad, outdated name that fit him.

Lonnie slid a form across the desk that Delilah was supposed to fill out. She had to get the kids in a room. Hurry!

After God knows what further processing, moving so slowly it was like going backward, Lonnie slid her key cards across the desk.

“Room 432, fourth floor, all the way in the back. The easiest way to access it is to—”

Yes, yes, she said. She could find it. Of course it sounded like Lonnie had just assigned her the room that was the farthest point away from the parking lot.

She hurried back out to the car (she had visions of some demented personality driving away with the kids while she was inside, kidnapping them from the kidnapper). She scooped up Barney, sacrificing her own clothes. She woke the other kids, and they trailed her like sheep. They marched the chilly halls of the Holiday Inn, which was sinister in its lack of character. Barney had his legs wrapped around Delilah’s waist and his hot, foul-smelling mouth agape against her neck. She had not had a spare hand for the overnight bag; she would have to retrace her steps the mile and a half back to the car. She would strip Barney first, put him in the shower (a nightmarish thought—the kid hated the shower), and pile him into bed with his brother.

She found Room 432, the last godforsaken room, but blessedly right across the hall from the ice machine and vending, and she tried to negotiate the key into its slot without being able to see her hands. Somehow she got the door open and stepped inside. There was a bathroom to the immediate left, a short hallway with an open closet, shelves for an iron and a dry cleaning bag, two double beds, a TV on the dresser, a desk, a table, two chairs, a pastel painting of a windmill and a couple of hounds, a window with long, heavy brocade curtains, and an air conditioner turned up full blast. The room was about thirty-five degrees.

“Okay!” Delilah said. Here was shelter.

“Auntie Dee?”

It was Finn. She turned around to address what sounded like panic in his voice, just in time to see him spew a great green wave of vomit in the vicinity of the brown plastic trash can, but really it splattered all over the dresser.

“Bathroom!” Delilah barked. She sounded unsympathetic, she knew. But Jesus, what was happening here? She laid Barney down and wheeled Finn into the bathroom, lifting the toilet seat and pushing his head down just in time for the next pulsing gush to splash into the bowl.

Chloe moved to the far bed, unaware or unimpressed, took off her shoes, and climbed in.

Teeth! Delilah thought. Chloe needed to brush her teeth, but Delilah had to deal with first things first, and besides that, the toothbrushes were in the overnight bag. Drew stood next to Delilah and said, “Mom?”

“Are you going to puke, too?” she asked.

“No,” he said.