James
I've cleared the dining-room table. The best dinner set and cutlery, candlesticks, red and green napkins and the Christmas log sit tumbled together on the dresser. We sit, each with a laptop and a bowl of re-heated casserole.
Mitch holds a spoon in one hand, but her stew is untouched. "Mitch," I say. "Eat."
She looks at the dish, then puts down her spoon. "I don't want it. I don't think I could hold it down." She looks ill, her complexion now, not just pale, but pasty.
Michael picks up the spoon and scoops up a chunk of chicken, offering it to her. "You have to eat, Mitch, even if it's just a little."
She recoils, turning her face away. "I'm sorry. I couldn't."
I level a finger at her screen where the drama of everyday hospital life plays: white-coated doctors with clipboards a
