He accepted one.
His left arm remained immobilized, so he unwrapped it awkwardly with his right hand. I nearly offered help, then waited.
He managed.
The caramel was soft enough to bite. He chewed slowly, eyes half closing.
Something eased in his face.
Not recognition.
Pleasure.
A simple response that needed no history.
“That’s good,” he murmured.
“You used to buy them every Friday.”
His eye opened.
I cursed myself silently.
Dr. Whitcomb had warned me. Do not turn every preference into evidence.
“Sorry,” I said. “You don’t need the commentary.”
He rolled the remaining caramel between his fingers.
“No. Tell me.”
I held still.
“What?”
“Things I liked.”
“Only when you ask.”
“I’m asking.”
I sat in the chair near his bed.
“You liked these. You liked coffee strong enough to frighten people. You hated olives but ate them accidentally at least once a month because you never checked sandwiches.”
A faint smile appeared.
This time it stayed.
“You liked running in bad weather,” I continued. “You said sunshine made it too easy.”
“That sounds stupid.”
“It was.”
His smile deepened by a fraction.
“You liked old crime novels, terrible disaster films, and music with too much guitar. You pretended you didn’t like dancing, but that was because you were bad at it.”
