I touched the back of my fingers to his cheek.
“No fever.”
“Apparently I’m surviving.”
“That is an inadequate standard.”
“I learned it from you.”
His speech had slowed.
Not slurred.
He needed longer to form each word.
I went to the freezer and took out the cold cap, wrapped it in a thin towel, and settled it across his forehead.
Noah breathed out.
“Water?”
“I drank some.”
“Food?”
“Crackers.”
“When?”
He frowned.
That was answer enough.
I brought yogurt, sliced banana, and a small piece of bread.
He looked at the plate as though I had personally betrayed him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Three bites.”
“You’re intolerable.”
“Yes.”
He ate four.
I sat on the floor beside him.
His hand drifted weakly toward me.
“What do you need?”
“A proper cuddle.”
“You’re in pain.”
“That is the point.”
