A soft knock.
I don’t turn. “Come in.”
Teresa enters, carrying her usual tray.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“You rarely are when you should be.”
“That sounds familiar.”
She sets the tray down on the table near the chair. Bread. Fruit. Something warm. Something practical. Sustenance, not indulgence. I approve.
“I’ve eaten,” I say.
“You will eat again.”
“I might.”
“You will.”
I glance at her. She meets it without hesitation. Thirty years in this house have removed any inclination she might once have had to defer to poor decisions made by people with power.
“I’ll consider it,” I say.
“You will eat,” she repeats.
“Fine.”
We understand each other. She looks around the room. “You’ve settled.”
“I’ve arranged.”
“Which is your version of settling.”
“Yes.”
She nods once. Approval granted.
I look back toward the window. “Salvatore nodded at me this morning.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s new.”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“That he accepts what has already happened.”
“Not what might happen.”
“No.”
“Only what is.”
“Yes.”
