Yuko nodded at once. No hesitation. She rose, fetched the small plastic bowl from the rolling tray table, and carried it to the narrow counter by the sink. The paring knife she found in the drawer was blunt from years of use, but she made do.
Each slice was careful, precise—thin crescents of apple arranged in a neat fan on a paper plate. She peeled an orange next; the sharp, bright scent bloomed instantly, cutting through the stale hospital smell like a promise.
While Yuko worked, Julie moved closer still. She lifted the edge of the thin hospital blanket just enough to expose my forearm and part of my chest. Without a word, she took a fresh wipe from the pack on the tray, moistened it, and began cleaning my skin in slow, deliberate strokes.
Her touch was firmer than Yuko's. More proprietary.
She leaned down until her lips were beside my ear—close enough that her breath stirred the fine hairs there.
