It was not a real recipe.

It was not anything a cook would be proud of.

But I made it with everything I had in me, and I carried it back to his room, and I fed him two small spoonfuls.

He tasted it, and a genuine smile spread across his face, the first real one since I had come home.

“This,” he whispered, with a flicker of the old mischief, “tastes absolutely terrible.”

I laughed, and he saw that I laughed, which I think was the point of it.