MINE. STILL.
I stood.
Perfect timing to get out before I accidentally cursed my half-dead grandfather’s golden boy.
“Excuse me, ma’am. This is Mr. Theo’s lunch,” a nurse said, far too cheerful for someone who worked in a place filled with dying people. Her face was fresh, lipstick a bubblegum pink, and she was pushing a tray that looked fancier than the last meal I’d bothered cooking for myself.
Cream of mushroom soup steaming in a white porcelain bowl, a plate of roasted chicken breast with rosemary sauce, and mashed potatoes so smooth I was half-convinced aliens had made them.
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