The rain had almost stopped by the time Sonic drove me home.
After leaving the hospital, he had insisted on waiting until the doctor finished scolding both of us a second time. Then he made me eat half a bowl of porridge he claimed was “expensive enough to respect” and bland enough that even my stomach had no excuse to protest.
I ate three spoonfuls.
He looked deeply betrayed.
“You know,” he said as the car turned onto the main road, “if porridge could sue for neglect, you’d be in trouble.”
“It should have tried tasting better.”
“Sick, cruel, and difficult. Yale Group trained you well.”
I leaned against the window and did not answer.
The medicine had dulled the pain, but exhaustion sat heavily behind my eyes. The city outside looked washed clean, its lights scattered across the wet
