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By the time we got back to Daniel's place, I was feeling better. I walked up the stairs and to my room without trouble, and although Luke had to help me adjust the brace that dug into my stomach and clipped in the back, I was otherwise completely independent. Luke, however, seemed to be in a state of constant worry. He kept popping his head in, asking if I needed anything, or if there was anyone he should wake up, or offer me a glass of water. I refused each time, and he would shoot me a nervous glance before walking away again, and then returning, just to be sure. "I'm sure," I told him, after being asked whether or not I wanted breakfast for what seemed like the hundredth time, "Besides, I'm sure you're a terrible cook." "Hemmings, I work at a café and my parents watch Food N
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