Page 35 of Tattle Tail
At the small food station, he reconstituted powdered juice in a glass of water and heated a bowl of chicken noodle soup. He scrounged a packet of crackers from the back of a cabinet and tossed them on the tray.
Peaceable pushed herself upright as he entered the cabin. Nettle darted between his feet, doing her level best to trip him.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, setting the tray down on the bedside table.
“I cannot breathe,” she said, her voice nasally. Nettle jumped on the bed and aggressively bumped her head against Peaceable’s hands until she gave in and stroked the wuap.
“But you are using words, which is an improvement.”
Then she sneezed.
The spray went everywhere. She slapped a hand over her mouth and nose, her eyes round in horror.
“Here.” He grabbed a package of tissues from the storage cubby in the wall and handed it to her. As discreetly as possible, he used one to wipe himself clean. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I am so sorry—”
“You’re sick. It happens. Not a big deal, really,” he said, but she did not believe him. “Once, Marigold vomited all over me. She had the top bunk and was halfway down and—”
Peaceable’s color looked off. “That is disgusting.”
“Exactly. A cute little kitten sneeze is nothing. Drink. Take these.” He handed her the glass and two more pain relievers.
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not sneeze like a kitten.”
She really did, but he kept that to himself.
“Don’t fuss. They reduce the fever and general feelings of blah,” he said.
“Such specific medical terminology,” she muttered, but took a drink. “Ugh, what is this? It is syrupy and acidic.”
“It’s orange juice. It’s full of vitamins to strengthen your immune system. It’s good for you.”
“Lies.” She pushed the glass toward him. “My immune system is already under attack. It is too late for the benefits of this vile juice.”
“I also brought you soup and crackers,” he said. She wrinkled her nose. “You have to eat.”
“I do not have an appetite.”
“Then the crackers. They’ll settle your stomach.”
She turned her head away.
Joseph understood that no one enjoyed being sick and having a head full of snot, but Peaceable elevated being a terrible patient to an art form. He had to play dirty, it seemed.
“Please, Peace. Let me take care of you,” he said.
“I—”
He held up a hand. “I know you are capable, and you don’t need me helping you.” Or defending her, recalling her heated words from the gala. “But I need to take care of the people I lov—” He stumbled over the word. “The people I like. So do me a solid and eat the soup.”
Continuing to glare, she nibbled on the corner of a cracker, then drank half the glass of juice. She wrinkled her nose, holding the glass out like it offended her. “It is thick like syrup, but all I can taste is acid.”
“You’re sick. You can’t taste anything,” he said. He exchanged the glass for the bowl of soup.
She poked at the limp noodles and the chunks of chicken. “What is this?”
“Chicken noodle. It’s traditional,” he said. Then added, “Don’t give that look to the time-honored traditions of my people.”
