Simone starts coughing again, the sound deep and painful.
“I made you tea and I fed your pet. Can you tell him I’m okay so I can give this to you before it gets cold?”
She eyes me for a moment, then pats the bed. “C’mere, Pluto.”
I cautiously move forward as the carinoux goes to her side. He watches me warily as I approach, so I offer my hand for him to sniff and wait for his reaction. When there is none, I reach out and hesitantly scratch his chin. “I’m a friend, Pluto. I just want to help your mom.”
He licks my fingers, then looks at Simone.
“Good boy,” she tells him. “I don’t know why she’s here either, but it’s okay.”
It’s a start, at least. “You can be mad at me later, but I’m here to take care of you. Come on. Sit up and drink this. It’ll make your throat feel better.”
She struggles to sit up, weak, and I put my arm around her back to help. Pluto watches us for a moment longer, then returns to his food, as if he’s decided I’m all right now. I bunch pillows up behind Simone and then add some folded towels when there aren’t enough pillows to sufficiently prop her up. She holds the cup in her hands, her eyes heavy, and takes a sip. Then another.
“More,” I say. “Drink the whole thing, and then I’m going to have you sip some water. You’re dehydrated.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re really sick. I’m allowed to be bossy.”
She just grunts. “Thanks for feeding Pluto. I fed him yesterday, but I didn’t have the strength to go down to the store for more today.”
“It’s fine.” I glance over at the carinoux, who’s licking his bowl. “So, Pluto, huh? Like the cartoon dog?”
The look Simone gives me is withering. “Like the planet?”
“Are we still calling it a planet?”
“We are. We don’t judge based on size.”
“That makes one of us,” I joke, getting to my feet.
She continues slowly drinking the tea while I return to the kitchen to prep some vegetables and soup stock and toss them all into a pot. I know plenty about baking, but cooking eludes me beyond putting things in a pan until they’re brown. Straik has machines that do everything for us back on the ship, but I’d found a jar of homemade stock at the store and decided I’d make her soup. I clean up the kitchen and do the dishes while it cooks, and I’m relieved to note that underneath the last few dishes (probably due to her being sick), the little kitchen is tidy and clean. The carinoux watches me hopefully, licking his shining bowl, so I make another smaller batch of steak cubes and feed him again.
As I do, Simone watches me. “What are you doing here anyhow?”
“Well, right now I’m feeding your pet. I’m also making a soup and cleaning up your kitchen. Then I’m going to run back down to the store and pick up the rest of your groceries, and when I get back, I’m going to bake some cookies for you and sell them, because you need the money for a doctor.”
She manages a frown. “I’m fine.”
“Oh, clearly.” I stack the newly cleaned bowls and start chopping one of the green leafy vegetables I’d gotten at the store. I have no idea what it tastes like, but after years of interstellar ship food, greens make my mouth water. “You’re not allergicto anything, are you? Checking before I add a bunch of fresh veggies to the soup.”
“Not allergic,” she says, drinking more tea. Simone watches me work, and when I look up, her brow is furrowed. After a moment, she speaks. “Why are you being nice to me?”
I shouldn’t feel guilty at her question, but I do. I finish chopping the greens and dump them into the pot of boiling soup, giving it all a stir. “Because you have to make a living, and I guess I’m lucky where I landed. Lord Straik takes care of everything for his people.”
“He’s been your owner this whole time?”
I pause, pushing back a flood of bad memories. “No.”
“Then you’re about as lucky as the rest of us.”
It’s nice of her to say, even if it’s not necessarily true. “I was rescued fairly quickly, which I’m grateful for every day.” I don’t bring up the clone thing. Illegal clones are supposed to be euthanized, and I don’t know Simone well enough to trust her with the truth of who I am. “Anyway, I admire your hustle, and I know I shouldn’t be a bitchy perfectionist. It’s hard for me to let go of things when they’re not done to my exact liking.”
“Control issues and perfectionism as a trauma response. I get it.”
I jerk in surprise, looking over at her. I’m about to protest that I don’t have trauma, but…that’d be a lie. I don’t let mine dictate my life like Ruthie does, with her piercings and haircuts and clinginess. Or…do I? Because I try my hardest to be the tidy one, the “together” one, the one that causes no problems and does everything by the book. The perfect one. Huh.
