Poor Freya

Freya woke up pale and droopy. It wasn't long before the two of us ended up on the couch with a bucket, waiting for the vomit to arrive. She just lay there, white and listless, until finally she threw up all over both of us.

I could tell she was trying to hold it inside, and I told her to let it come out, that she'd feel better when she was done.

In a voice so tiny I could barely hear her, she whispered, "But it's my brains."

No wonder she wanted to hold it in.

More about Bar Harbor coming soon, and hi, I missed you all!