"Yes."
"You eat today?"
"I..."
I couldn't remember.
"I'll take that as a no."
The door opened. Matt stepped inside, carrying a grocery bag and a paper sack that smelled like warm bread. He looked around the apartment the way he always did—his eyes moving across the wall, the bed, the dishes in the sink—but he didn't comment. He never commented.
"I brought soup. And bread. And some fruit."
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to."
He set the bag on the counter and began unpacking. Tomatoes. Apples. A loaf of sourdough wrapped in brown paper. A container of soup that was still warm.
"Sit."
"I'm not hungry."
"Sit anyway."
I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was soft, worn from weeks of restless sleep, and I sank into it like it was trying to swallow me.
Matt handed me a bowl of soup and a spoon.
"Eat."
"You're bossy."
"Someone has to be."
He sat in the chair across from me—the one he'd brought from the bar, the one that didn't match the rest of the furniture, the one that had become his spot.
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
"Have you been sleeping?"
"A little."
"How little?"
"A few hours. Maybe."
"Bunny..."
"I know. I know. I need to sleep more. I need to eat more. I need to take care of myself."
"Do you?"
"Yes. But I also need to find him. And I can't find him if I'm sleeping."
Matt was quiet for a moment.
