He picked up the knife in his right hand and looked at the sandwich.
“What needs doing?”
“Cut it.”
He pressed the blade through the bread.
The first half tore.
He swore.
I said nothing.
He turned the sandwich and tried again.
This cut was cleaner.
He placed both halves on the plate and pushed it toward me.
“There.”
“You made lunch.”
“I cut lunch.”
“An essential stage.”
He gave me a dark look, but some of the tension left his shoulders.
I put the medication beside his glass.
He swallowed the tablets first.
After half the yogurt drink and two bites of sandwich, the color began to return to his face.
I sat across from him.
“I’m sorry I lost track of time.”
“So did I.”
“You have an injured brain.”
“You have a clock.”
“That is fair.”
Noah chewed slowly.
“I didn’t feel hungry.”
“Maeve said that may happen.”
“I felt sick. I thought it was my head.”
“We’ll use a second alarm.”
He frowned.
