“You need a solid nine hours of rest,” he said without turning around.

I watched his reflection in the dark glass door of the microwave mounted above the stove.

He reached into the inner pocket of his dark gray vest and pulled out a small dark glass bottle no bigger than my thumb.

He unscrewed the black plastic cap and tipped two amber drops straight into my ceramic mug.

“What is inside that bottle, Daniel?” I asked, my voice rising exactly two notes higher than I intended.

He froze for a fraction of a second, his hand hanging over the steam, before he slid the bottle back into his vest.