It was the right sort of soup for the task: hearty enough to have mostly solidified in the icebox until Ford scooped it into a bowl and heated it with a spell. Thick cuts of potato and carrot and onions that had gone clear while they cooked. He pulled the sleeve of his pajamas down over the heel of his hand so that he could carry the bowl up the stairs without burning himself. There were extra rolls in the pantry (the housekeeper hadn't gotten into the habit yet of making meals the right size, since Grace had moved out) and Ford balanced two of them in his other hand, barely managing the doorknob.

Before he'd left he'd been sitting at the foot of the bed, cautious, leaving space for fragility, but on entering again he decided he was done with that. It was the sight of Cash alone on his bed still balled up on himself that decided him. The bed was too big for Ford — too big for any one person — but Cash looked especially small at the moment. So after he set the soup bowl in Cash's lap he crawled across the bed instead, into the space next to Cash. He leaned up against the headboard and crossed his legs, letting his knee brush against Cash's thigh. Ford set one of the rolls down on the bedspread in front of Cash and kept the other in his hand as though he might eat it, though he had no intention to. His body language was aggressively casual, as though he could single-handedly make this into a normal interaction between two friends.

"It's nothing fancy, but it's filling," he said with a nod towards the bowl.

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