“A little.”
I touched his forehead.
No fever.
“Cold cap?”
“Don’t want it.”
“Water?”
“Some.”
“Food?”
He closed his eye.
I placed the soup on the dresser.
“Three bites of bread.”
“Not a child.”
“No.”
“Then stop talking like I am.”
The sharpness hurt.
I accepted it.
“All right.”
I stood.
Noah opened his eye again.
Guilt appeared immediately.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
“At you?”
“Yes.”
“You brought food.”
“And I gave an instruction.”
He looked away.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“That is allowed too.”
I covered the soup and placed the bread within reach.
