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They brought in food. Rodin didn’t recognise the staff—he was certain they weren’t trained meditechs but orderlies, low-level workers to do whatever Don wanted. One was a heavy-set female who avoided looking at him, the other a tall male who smiled at Rodin. Neither spoke as they shuffled his bed-covers, cleaned the room, then left a steaming bowl and a spoon on the table by the bed.
The table was on a swivel pole, operated by controls at the side of the bed, in reach of Rodin’s outstretched hand. The same controls angled the bed so that he could sit up without straining his stomach. This felt far too lazy, but he did it anyway.
The food was some kind of semi-liquid, and he slurped it down, feeling warmth rather than taste or texture. Don wanted him alive for the moment, so
