It’s when you don’t choose it and you need help that loneliness becomes miserable. I think of Simone again and turn towards the general store across the street.
Inside the store, it’s temperature-controlled, cool and inviting. The avian alien behind the counter squawks a greeting at me and cocks his head.I march to the counter, pulling out afew credits that I keep on me for emergencies. “Has Simone been in today?”
His feathers arch on the back of his neck and then he shakes his head. “Her order is waiting but she hasn’t come by to get it.”
“Her order?” I ask, curious. This might be even better than my initial thought of “buy medicine and bring it.”
The avian squawks again, tapping a screen on his data pad and then showing it to me. “She picks up baking supplies every day so she can bake after her cart sells out. Fresh butter. Milk. Flour. Honey. Raw meat for her animal. Every day. But yesterday’s order is still here and unpaid for.”
“Every day?” I echo. “She bakes all that every day?”
“Every day,” he agrees. “Hardest-working human I know.”
I feel another stab of guilt, because I’ve thrown this narrative in my head that Simone bakes terrible pastries because she doesn’t give a shit. I’ve seen what she puts out, though. She varies up her selection daily, with cookies and muffins in different flavors, and tiny pies and pancakes with fruits and nuts. It’s a lot of baking, and she sells from her cart until she runs out, rain or shine. Shedoeswork hard. She is just missing some piece of the puzzle to make it all click.
“I’ll pay for her order and take it to her,” I say. “And I want some noodles and fresh vegetables, too. Whatever would be good in a soup.”
A short time later, I have heavy bags full of flour and Simone’s baking supplies. I can’t carry it all, but I promise the shopkeeper that I’ll be back once I’ve dropped the first load off. I head to the boarding house and smile broadly at the woman at the frontdesk who’s busy perusing the most tattered copy ofOutlanderI’ve ever seen.
“I’m bringing Simone’s groceries to her,” I say, juggling the bags.
She barely looks up from her book. “Cool.”
“Right, thanks.” Glad I’m not a murderer or anything. Hefting the bags higher, I head down the hall, following the sound of coughing. It sounds raw and battered, her coughing, and I inwardly wince at how much her throat must be hurting.
I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. That’s not a surprise. She probably thinks it’s me again (and she’d be right). I test the doorknob, and it turns in my hand, the door cracking open.
Again, glad I’m not a murderer.
I’ve come with a plan, though. I know she’s got a carinoux guarding her, and so in addition to the food order I picked up, I also bought a huge haunch of fresh meat. I’m hoping that buys me enough time to befriend him, or I’m going to regret today immensely.
Letting myself in as quietly as possible, I step inside and wrinkle my nose at the stale sweat smell hanging in the air. The window in the room is closed, the lights off, and everything in the small apartment is a mess, clothing strewn on the floor and dishes piled on the counter. Not a surprise, given that she’s sick. There are two huge racks in the living room, one with empty pans for resting cooling pastries, and another full of pots and pans used for her business.
The carinoux pads out of the bedroom and immediately begins snarling at me. He remains in the bedroom doorway, his loyalty to his mistress obvious.
“I know,” I say in a calm voice. I’m determined not to show fear, because I’m not doing anything wrong. “I’m going to help your mistress. We’re going to make a nice soup to help her feelbetter and I’m going to bake for her and feed you. Would you like that, friend?”
The cat-lizard continues to snarl, but he doesn’t move any closer. Guarding his person is apparently the priority. Okay, I can work around that.
I squeeze into the crowded little kitchen and find her teapot, flicking it on to warm after adding water. I glance over the counter at the open door to the bedroom. Inside, I can see Simone, who’s a huddled lump under her blankets. She hasn’t even stirred at the noise I’m making, and I feel another twinge of pity for her. The tea—a light herbal blend—perfumes the air and I add a dollop of honey to make it soothing for her throat.
First, though, I’ve got to feed the carinoux so he doesn’t eat my throat.
“Are you hungry, friend?” I keep my voice sweet as I pull out the haunch of meat and start cutting it into cubes. I don’t know if he eats it raw or cooked, so I decide to cook it. I heat a pan and sear the meat, and I have to admit it smells pretty damned good. I glance over at the carinoux, and he’s licking his chops, his gaze on me. Poor baby is probably scared his human is sick, and he’s hungry, to boot.
I fill a bowl with the seared steak cubes and set it on the floor.
He just stares at it, not moving from his spot. He licks his chops again.
“I can bring it to you.” I pick up the bowl and take a few careful, slow steps toward the bedroom and then slide it toward him. He immediately starts to wolf down the food, ravenous, and I feel bad for the little guy. He’s small for a carinoux, only about the size of a small pony instead of a large one.
“Now, tea for your mom,” I say, keeping my tone sweet. I pick up the mug and move toward the bedroom, but the creature makes it obvious that I am not going to get past him. He loses interest in his bowl and begins to growl again.
New tactic, then.
I remain where I am, holding the tea. “Hey, Simone. Wake up. I made you tea.”
She comes to slowly, as I knew she would, and squints up at me from the bed. Her face looks even more hollow than yesterday, her hair a stringy mess. Her pajamas are soaked with sweat again. “What…”
