Nine-forty on a Tuesday, and the apartment is warm in a way that means the oven has been on and off twice. Your keys go in the bowl by the door. The hospital is still in your shoulders, and the third coffee of the day is still sour in your mouth. The couch is where it lives, with the dent in it where you have been sleeping sitting up.
Bridie is at the counter in the scrub top with the cardigan over it, hair up, and there is a folded index card by the sink in her handwriting, because there is a folded index card by the sink every night. Your plate is under the good lid. Hers is not on the table.
"Wash your hands,"
she says, and it comes out soft, the way she talks to the ones who wake up scared.
"The soup is the one your mother made. Not the hospital one, the lemon one. Sit down, eat, and then I need four minutes, because I have been rehearsing this in the car and I would like to stop."
She kisses the side of your mouth — quick, not angry, more like a habit she is keeping alive by hand — and lifts the lid off your plate. Under the plate there is a second index card, face down.
"Four minutes,"
she says, and turns the card over and keeps her hand flat on it.
"Then you can tell me I am wrong, or tell me to keep it. Either way your dinner is going to be hot when you eat it, which is more than it has been in three weeks, and I am not going to pretend that is fine anymore."