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My hands curl into the blanket.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.And in any case, I’m not her mother.”

“No,” he says.“You’re worse.You sat by and watched.”

He stands.Walks to the window.Looks out.

Then—quietly, as though it’s not even a question—”I said get up.”

I don’t move.

Not right away.

“You need to eat.”

He’s not wrong for once.I’m starving.

He leaves and returns with a plate.“This should help your blood sugar.”

The toast smells like a bribe.Or a test.I’m too hungry to care which.And I want out of this room.I want out of these sheets.

Out of the stale air and the quiet that’s starting to feel as though it might actually drive me insane.

So I eat the toast and when I’m less shaky, I follow him out of the room and down the hall even though it feels like the part in a horror movie where someone smiles right before the worst thing happens.

He leads me to the dining room.

Light spills in.It’s too bright.

The room is all windows.High and wide.On the table are two plates of food.It’s too hot to have been waiting long.

“Sit,” he says.

I do.Faster than I mean to.

He doesn’t take a seat.Just stands there and watches as I salivate over the food on the table.

“Better,” he says, almost to himself.

“Is it?”

He shrugs like it’s obvious.“You can’t understand someone you’ve only seen in one position.”

My stomach knots.

He’s not wrong.

He studies me as though I’m a reflection of something he’s trying to remember.

“The first time I saw you,” he says, “you looked like someone who’d already decided to die.”

I don’t answer.I’m not sure he’s expecting me to.

He sits across from me, finally.

Not that it matters.I can’t take my eyes off the food.Eggs.Toast.Bacon.

I don’t touch it, even though I’m dying to.Even though it wouldn’t matter if he killed me for doing it.I don’t touch it because I have years of experience stuffing down the things I want.