7 Chapter 7

He shook his head. “I haven’t finished this cup.”

“What are you eating for dinner?” I asked.

“I only eat one meal a day. You know that, son. I wait until you get here.”

I didn’t want to argue with him or get him riled, but I said, “That can’t be enough, Dad.”

He raised his hand and pointed a long, crooked finger at me, his nails in dire need of a manicure. “You bring me everything I need every day.”

“I’m talking about food.”

“I know. I’m not.”

I was about to sit back in the chair and pull my hand off his thigh when, unexpectedly, he clamped his hand down on my mine.

I looked up at him. His eyes were moist. I stood and stepped over balls of crumpled tissue to get to him, and hugged him, wrapping my arms around the maze of IVs poking out from his arms and hands.

Neither of us spoke.