Lunch arrived.
The covered plate held fish, overcooked vegetables, and something described as herb rice.
Noah lifted the lid and stared.
“No.”
“I brought an alternative.”
His gaze went to the insulated bag beneath my chair.
“You always do.”
The words warmed me absurdly.
I unpacked a container divided into small sections: soft cheese, sliced pear, crackers, pieces of chicken, and chocolate-covered raisins.
Noah inspected it.
“I like this.”
“You ate most of it yesterday.”
“You made it?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“I dislike cutting pears into identical pieces for strangers.”
He picked one up.
“You cut them the same size.”
“I have standards.”
I took the hospital fish for myself.
Noah frowned.
“You don’t have to eat that.”
“It’s food.”
“It looks punished.”
I laughed.
The sound startled both of us.
Noah watched me as though he had accomplished something.
We ate quietly.
His right hand worked well. His left remained immobilized, but the swelling in his fingers had decreased enough that he could move them.
“The doctor said you don’t sleep,” he said.
