"How are you?" Van asked, standing in the doorway with a green apple and that mango-sweet grin that used to get him out of detention.
"I'm great," I said. "If by great you mean dying slowly of hospital pudding."
He laughed and sat on the metal chair, ignoring the thin hospital blanket around my hips and the white gauze at my side. His fingers worked a pocketknife with the same slow patience he used on every fishing line in Mariner Heights. He peeled a curl of apple skin and handed the fruit to me like it was gold.
"You're not allowed to make fun of pudding," Mom snapped from the corner, brand-new anxious tone engaged. "Eat, Leona. You need calories."
"I will die without calories," I said and bit the apple. The skin popped where my teeth caught it and apple juice slid down my wrist. The bandage made my arm feel heavier than it looked.
Van watched me eat. He always watched like he was cataloging small behaviors for some future crisis. He held himself steady. No show, no fanfare. Just a chair, an apple, and that look that said he was here on purpose.
"Kind of a waste of a ward meal if you're going to mock it," he said. "How are you in the mind? Any revenge fantasies?"
I chewed louder on purpose. The apple was crisp. It was a stupid, perfect thing to do in a hospital ward full of fluorescent
