The heat from the soup bowl spread into Cash's thighs, and he balanced it carefully with one hand. The smell of the broth floated upwards towards him, the aroma of carrots and sweet onion and earthy potatoes. Cash could tell from looking that it was the sort of soup that a cook made to heat people up on a cold Scottish night.

He was glad to have Ford up by the headboard with him; it felt less like he was invading his friend's space, and more like they were meant to be spending time together here. Cash smiled at Ford, tired, and dunked his soup into the soup's broth, allowing liquid and slices of transparent onion to sink into the bowl. He tried to stave off apprehension — the worst that could happen was that he would be sick again, and he had allowed Ford to see much worse tonight — and started to eat.

The faint shakes in his hands started to fade, the more he ate. Cash had eaten about a third of the soup before he looked back at Ford. Once he had told Ford that he used to be fun, before — Cash was still sure this was true, and that maybe there were moments of it, but he was having a hard time believing it lately. "I don't know what to do," he admitted.