A pause.
"Later," he said.
"Right." I held up the bag. "So."
He looked at it. Something moved through his jaw. This was not a man who had forgotten what I'd said last night. This was a man who had remembered it very clearly and was doing the math on whether letting me sit in his office and eat pad Thai with him was a good idea.
The math was apparently inconclusive because he didn't tell me to leave.
He also didn't tell me to stay.
"I didn't know what you liked," I said. "So I got several things."
"Is this—" he started. Stopped. Looked at his desk. "Do you do this. For people."
I looked at him. "Do I bring people food?"
"Yes." Still not looking at me. Pen in hand, not writing anything with it.
"Sometimes Dylan makes me pick up food when it's his turn to cook. Which is—"
"I don't mean Dylan." A pause. The pen moved slightly. "Other people."
I tilted my head. "What other people?"
Nathan looked up then, briefly, like he had said more than he intended and was recalibrating. "People. In general. That you—" He stopped again. "People you spend time with."
I stared at him.
Nathan Cross, who delivered difficult medical news without blinking, was sitting at his desk not finishing sentences and looking at his pen like it had done something to offend him.
"Are you asking if I'm bringing anyone else takeout right now?" I said.
A pause that was approximately one year long.
"Yes," Nathan said. To the pen.
"No," I said.
He nodded. Once. Very small. Like he was trying not to.
"How many people?" he asked. Still to the notes. "Generally speaking. How many people do you generally do this for?"
"Generally?"
"In the past." A pause. "Year."
"Nathan."
"It's a straightforward question."
"It is not a straightforward question," I said. "It's a very specific question, and we both know it."
Nathan said nothing. He had gone very still in the way he went still when he was waiting for something and was prepared to wait as long as it took.
I looked at him. At the pen. At the notes he wasn't reading.
"Zero," I said. "The answer is zero."
