Since my brothers are as worthless in the kitchen as I am, I knock on the door of the Asian girl who let me in earlier. She doesn’t answer.
Shit.
All right. Maybe I’ll just Google. I stare down at the can in my hand. How hard can it be?
I walk along the hall until I hit a lounge with a kitchenette. The Asian girl I was looking for is lying on a couch, reading. She lowers her book.
“You still here?” she asks.
“Left and came back, actually. Aspen needs some food.”
She looks at the can. “Soup?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you know canned soup is bad for you? Too much sodium and preservatives.”
“Positivity. Good! Just what Aspen needs to get better.”
“Just sayin’.” She gets to her feet. “So. Do you know how to turn on the stove?”
“Do I look that helpless?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
“I can probably turn it on, but beyond that…”
She snorts. “Figures. Lemme show you. But not because I want to help you, because I love Aspen.”
It’s a good thing, too. I have no idea what I’m doing. The can isn’t that big. Also it isn’t condensed, which, according to Suyen, means no adding water.
“It’s barely a bowl.” I’d be starving if this was all I got.
“That’s all she needs,” Suyen says. “She probably doesn’t have much appetite right now.” She gestures at the dish drainer by the sink. “You can use the stuff there, but you gotta clean everything up before you leave.”
The drainer has a few plates and a couple of cups that are big enough to hold the soup. I pour it into the cup and put some water in the pot.
After grabbing a spoon, I take the food to Aspen’s room. When she opens the door, I search her face, wondering if anything I brought is helping. She looks to be about the same, though. They need to invent meds that deliver instant results.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “Did the spray help?”
She nods. “A little, yeah. Thanks.”
She put the bags of stuff away already. There’s only a bottle of Advil, throat spray and some cough drops by her bed.
“Why don’t you sit on the bed?” I say, since the room is tiny and doesn’t have a good place to eat. She settles down, the sheets over her legs. I hand her the soup. “Careful. It’s hot.”
She holds it gingerly. “Thanks.” She takes a small spoonful to her mouth. Her eyebrows rise. “It’s pretty good.”
I smile with satisfaction. It’s such a small thing, but I like feeding her.
Then she looks at my empty hands. “You want some?”
“Nope. It’s all yours.” I sit on the hard chair in front of her desk again. “I’m going to wait until you’re done so I can clean up.”
“You don’t have to. I can do it later,” she says.
“Nah. That’s the nurse’s job.”
