My legs ache as I move them out of the way. Truganini sets down a bowl of soup. I put my legs back in place.
The soup smells horrible.
“What on God’s earth is in this, Tru?” There’s like a hint of sardine. Chocolate?
“Never you mind,” she scowls. “It will give you strength. You’ll feel better.”
My hand and will are fighting to move the spoon away or toward my mouth. My nose is telling my will to give up the fight. “Is that because it’s going to kill me? Have I eaten this and forgot due to trauma?”
She calls from the kitchen. “What answer is going to get you to stop belly aching?”
There isn’t an answer to that question. I am swallowing the soup. Some sort of marsh grass is in it. “I’m glad you’re back, Tru. Your cooking has improved.”
“Yes, that’s right. Insult the only person that’s stuck by you. The one taking care of you right now.” She saunters back into the room where I can see her. She has a mouth watering steak on a plate. This cut is bigger than her head. It smells sweet and tangy. My soup tastes worse by comparison.
She grins at me. “It’s an extra special soup.” She grabs the steak with her paws and tears a piece off. With her mouth full, she says, “Eat your soup.”
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