His question struck me. “You are worried about me, are you?”

Am I?

I don’t think so.

“I’m not,” I replied.

He sighed, “I apologize that you have to meet my family at this time.”

“Oh, it is fine.” I lied, ‘It’s really fine.”

Silence fell and he pointed at the sliced fruits placed on a plate just on the bedside.

“Can you feed that to me?”

“No, your feet were the injured ones, not your hands.”

He sighed,” Come on, can’t you at least treat me like a patient, Z?”

The way he talks feels like he didn’t even get on a life-threatening experience. A. mini-stroke or whatever.

I...