The treatment means Delia seldom eats. She picks at meals, usually some combination of her favorite foods. She tries. She doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.
Her head’s bald. Her brown eyes dominate her gaunt face.
“I’ve a craving,” she says, her voice a whisper.
I perk up. “What for?”
“Ice cream with chocolate syrup, lots of Cool Whip and peanuts.”
Her version of a sundae when we were kids. More topping than ice cream.
When I return, she thanks me. After one spoonful, her lips press together. Her throat works to swallow.
The clock ticks away seconds.