"Food's ready," I said, setting plates on the small wooden table.
Cord turned from the window but didn't move toward the table. "I'm not really hungry."
"You just said you haven't eaten since breakfast."
"I said maybe breakfast. I don't remember." He rubbed his face with his good hand. "My stomach feels off."
"That's probably the withdrawal kicking in," I said, keeping my voice level. "You need to eat something anyway. Keep your blood sugar steady."
He looked at me, weighing whether to fight about it. Finally, he crossed to the table and dropped into a chair. The table wobbled, and I grabbed a paper towel to shove under one leg.
"High-tech solution," Cord said.
"My dad would've carved a new leg from scratch, but I'm more of a 'whatever works' kind of guy."
Cord picked up his sandwich, tore off a small piece, then set it back down. "How long did you say this would take?"
"Depends on how much you were taking and for how long." I took a bite of my own sandwich even though I wasn't hungry anymore. "Could be a few days for the physical stuff. The mental part takes longer."
"Great." He picked at the bread, shredding it into small pieces without eating any. "So I get to feel like shit while also losing my mind. Perfect vacation."
The bitterness cut deep. I watched him destroy the sandwich piece by piece, his movements jerky and purposeless.
"You want to talk about what you're feeling?" I asked.
"No." Fast and sharp. Then he caught himself. "Sorry. I just... I don't want to talk right now."
"Okay." I finished my sandwich while Cord kept tearing his apart. After a few minutes, I tried again. "You should try to eat something, man. Even a few bites."
"I said I'm not hungry."
"I know, but—"
"Jesus, Dusty, just drop it." He stood fast, chair scraping against worn linoleum. "I don't need you hovering over me like I'm some kind of invalid."
That stung more than it should have. I told myself it was the anxiety talking, that he didn't mean it, but it still felt like getting slapped.
"I'm trying to help," I said.
"I know." He turned away, running his good hand through his hair. "I know. I'm sorry. I just feel like my skin doesn't fit right, and I can't sit still, and everything is..." He gestured at nothing. "I don't know. Wrong."
I stood and moved closer, but stopped a few feet away. Space seemed important. "That's normal for withdrawal. You’re not an addict, but your body got accustomed to the meds, and now it’s trying to recalibrate."
"How long does the 'feeling like crawling out of my own skin' part last?"
"Everyone's different. Maybe a day or two for the worst of it."
"Fuck." He leaned against the counter, head dropping forward. "I can't do two days of this."
"You can. You're already doing it."
He laughed, bitter and humorless. "Am I? Because from where I'm standing, I'm just making both of us miserable."
"You're not—"
"Don't." He held up his hand. "Don't do the whole supportive yoga instructor thing right now. I need you to just be honest with me."
"Okay." I crossed my arms, leaning against the opposite counter. "Honestly? This is going to suck. You're going to feel worse before you feel better. You're probably going to say shit you don't mean and hate me by tomorrow morning. And I'm probably going to second-guess every decision that got us here."
