Page 92 of The Turning of the Tables

I will eat whatever dairy-free bakery you decide to give me, I texted him.But don’t feel obligated.

He didn’t reply immediately, so I switched over to the now surprisingly long thread I had going with Elliot.

I am home. I’m okay.

Unlike Hart, he replied almost immediately.

Are you?

Shit. Everybody else seemed to take me at my word—even Noah, although it was possible that Noah was just ignoring the lies. That would explain why he kept pushing at me.

Not really. But I’m alive.

You need to be eating. A lot.

Jesus. Him and Noah both. Given they were both shifters, that was probably for good reason.

Noah is making me eat.

Good. You need a lot more than you think. Especially now.

I know.

Noah had said so. The doctors and nurses atSt. Cyprian’s had said so. Now Elliot was saying so. I took another bite of my toast.

Noah made me peanut butter banana toast.

You need meat.

I’m really sick of chicken. And I can’t eat beef or pork.

Your tick thing?

Yeah.

You should still eat more meat than you’re used to. Chicken, turkey. Duck.

Do you know how expensive duck is?

I trade bar stool repair for like a half-dozen every fall.

I snorted.

“What?” Noah asked from where he’d made two small piles of movies.

“Elliot suggested I eat duck,” I told him.

“Duck? Where would we even get duck?” Noah wanted to know.

“He apparently trades fixing bar stools for it,” I replied. “So, uh, make bar stools?”

It was Noah’s turn to snort. “Right. I’ll get on that.”

“Exactly,” I replied. I went back to my conversation with Elliot.

I lack your skills with wood.

I seem to remember you had pretty good wood-handling skills.