The five dollar note folded smaller in my pocket than it should have.

  I bought ginger tablets.

  Mild anti-nausea medication safe for children.

  And, after hesitating for a full minute, a small pack of disposable vomit bags.

  Blue rim. Foldable. Compact.

  Total cost.

  Four dollars sixty.

  Forty cents change.

  Forty cents that could have been future capital.

  I stopped the thought before it completed.

  The next morning, I waited until recess.

  She was alone at her desk, finishing leftover rice from a small pink lunchbox.

  I placed the small pharmacy bag on her table.

  She stared at it.

  “What is this?”

  “Anti-vomit starter kit.”

  She blinked.

  “… what?”

  I lowered my voice.

  “For your stomach.”

  Her ears turned slightly red.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I know.”

  She pushed the bag back slightly.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are not.”

  Silence.

  I opened the bag myself.

  “These are ginger tablets. Take one if you feel nauseous.”

  I pulled out the folded blue bag.

  “And this is emergency protocol.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You bought a vomit bag?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s so embarrassing.”

  “It’s more embarrassing to redecorate the classroom floor.”

  She stared at me.

  Then covered her face with both hands.

  “You noticed every time, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “That’s so mortifying.”

  “It’s only mortifying if you pretend it’s not happening.”

  She peeked through her fingers.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  I shrugged.

  “I used to be a doctor.”

  She lowered her hands slowly.

  “What?”

  “In my previous life.”

  She stared at me.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Reincarnated specialist in weak stomach management.”

  “That’s not even a real thing.”

  “Yet.”

  She tried not to smile.

  Failed.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Of course I am.”

  She hesitated.

  “… but thank you.”

  Over the next week, I monitored patterns.

  Before PE.

  After oily food.

  During stressful quizzes.

  One afternoon before Chinese spelling, she looked pale again.

  I leaned back slightly.

  “Tablet.”

  She swallowed one reluctantly.

  “Does pressing here help?” she asked, half joking.

  “Yes.”

  She froze.

  “You’re making that up.”

  “No.”

  I turned her palm upward.

  “There’s a pressure point here.”

  I pressed gently near the base of her thumb.

  “If you press and massage slowly, it can reduce nausea.”

  She stared at my hand on hers.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Previous life doctor,” I said calmly.

  She rolled her eyes.

  But she pressed the spot later when she felt uneasy.

  First month.

  No incident.

  Second month.

  One near disaster during Science.

  Her face turned white mid lesson.

  She grabbed my sleeve lightly under the desk.

  “It’s coming.”

  “Bag,” I whispered.

  She pulled the blue bag from her drawer.

  Opened it shakily.

  Turned slightly away.

  Quiet retching.

  Contained.

  No splatter.

  No screaming.

  No cleaner auntie.

  Just her, breathing heavily afterward.

  The smell was faint.

  Manageable.

  The teacher paused.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “Yes.”

  Lesson resumed.

  After class, she looked at the bag in disbelief.

  “It worked.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saved me.”

  “Technically you saved the floor.”

  She laughed softly.

  Frequency decreased.

  Not eliminated.

  But spaced out.

  Less violent.

  Less public.

  She started carrying the bag daily.

  It became routine.

  One afternoon she asked, “If you were really a doctor before, why did you reincarnate as a kid?”

  “Malpractice,” I said immediately.

  She gasped.

  “I’m joking.”

  She studied me more carefully now sometimes.

  “You talk weird.”

  “How?”

  “Like you’re old.”

  “I am old.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  She threw a pencil at me.

  “Stop it.”

  But she was smiling again.

  The connection deepened quietly.

  We spoke more during recess.

  About teachers.

  About classmates.

  About random observations.

  One day she asked, “Why do you care so much about small things?”

  “What small things?”

  “My reading speed. My stomach.”

  I thought about that.

  “Because small things become big things later.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “It will.”

  Despite improvements, the vomiting never disappeared entirely.

  It reduced.

  Shifted.

  But remained part of her pattern.

  One heavy rain afternoon, it returned without warning.

  No tablet beforehand.

  No time for preparation.

  She grabbed the bag mid surge.

  Too late to fully seal it.

  Some spilled onto the desk.

  Not catastrophic.

  But noticeable.

  Students groaned.

  Teacher sighed.

  Cleaner auntie summoned again.

  She looked devastated afterward.

  “I thought it was gone,” she whispered.

  “It’s not gone,” I said. “It’s managed.”

  “That’s worse.”

  “No.”

  “How is that better?”

  “Because now you’re not helpless.”

  She stared at me.

  “You really talk like a doctor.”

  “See?”

  She laughed weakly.

  But I could see the frustration.

  I felt it too.

  For a moment, the irrational thought surfaced.

  If I had spent my own five dollars instead of the teacher’s, would it have changed something?

  Ridiculous.

  But the mind negotiates with causality when it cannot control outcome.

  I recalibrated internally.

  Intervention does not guarantee perfection.

  It shifts probability.

  And that is often enough.

  By the end of Year Three, vomit incidents were rare.

  When they happened, they were contained.

  No more classroom evacuations.

  No more dramatic chaos.

  Just controlled inconvenience.

  One day during dismissal, she walked beside me.

  “You know,” she said, “even if you’re not a reincarnated doctor…”

  “I am.”

  “… even if you’re not,” she continued firmly, “thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For not pretending you didn’t see.”

  That stayed with me longer than any calculation about future currency ever did.

  I still saved every dollar.

  I still tracked mental opportunity cost with absurd precision.

  But sitting in class, hearing her read without interruption, watching her press her palm when nausea threatened, seeing her reach for the blue bag with quiet confidence—

  Those were returns too.

  Just not the kind measured in price charts.

  And for once, I allowed myself not to calculate them.