17. The Flu (3)

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"…You're going to feed me yourself, Lady Neria?"

"Then who else is there besides me?"

Neria shrugged and began opening the takeout containers while I stood there dumbfounded.

The opened lids abandoned all semblance of order and clustered in a corner of the table.

The final flourish, as ever, was the porridge.

Neria scooped up a spoonful, steaming white as though proudly showing off its heat, and held it out toward me.

By the time she got to this point, I had conveyed my wishes to Neria: 'I'm fine on my own,' 'Aren't you going to too much trouble, Lady Neria….', 'I haven't contracted a fatal illness, Lady Neria,' and so on.

But all those efforts oxidized before they could amount to anything.

All that remained was the spoon sliding toward me...