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Trembling hands reached to block his nose from the awful stench he could still taste on the back of his tongue as he reached his arm out for the phone that sat on his desk. His hand quivered punching in the numbers, holding his breath from the effort, which only added to the cramping in his stomach. His eyes were starting to haze, his vision swimming every time he moved his head, the numbers becoming white messes of soft lines. His trembling only got worse the more he tried, until a hand enveloped his. It was cool and comforting. Another familiar hand pressed against his forehead, and through his blurry vision (when did he take his glasses off?) he saw a familiar mess of colours, a familiar shape, a familiar person. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat, becoming only an incoherent mumble. Since when did it get this bad...?
"Harves, what happened to you...?"