Spector, you've been lying in bed, eyes awake, for several minutes now listening to the constant timbre of a light drizzle falling upon your roof. There's a leak in the corner where you've placed a bucket to catch the drip. The drip hitting the bucket is usually a rhythmic addition to the rain hitting the roof, but Pamming is blocking it right now. She's nestled up on a chair she positioned underneath the drip, one knee tucked beneath her ass - covered only in torn panties - the other at a right angle held closely by her arms locked at the wrists. Pamming is wearing this utility vest, like might have once been used by a fisherman, only. She has her head tilted back and her tongue sticking out, like she's stretching it as far as she can, to catch the drip. The dog is lying beside her on a small rug atop the hard floor. It has one paw lazily covering its muzzle.
When Pamming sees you eyeing her, she laughs trying to maintain her posture but breaks it when she speaks, the drip hitting her nose and lips. She speaks playfully.
"What...? Everyone says it's fine to drink without boiling it first. It's just rain."
She licks her lips. A few drips splash her in the face, her forehead and hair, as she leans forward and tumbles out of the chair casually and onto the floor. You can't see her now, but you hear her. Her playful tone seems to evaporate.
"I've been vomiting. I think I might be dying."
What do you do?