“No.”
She waited.
“Is the woman in 418 allowed coffee?”
Denise studied me.
“Why are you asking?”
“I was thinking of bringing her one.”
“That is different from the answer most people give.”
“What answer were you expecting?”
“That you accidentally bought two.”
I glanced toward the machine.
“I considered saying that.”
Denise smiled.
“She can have regular coffee. No dietary restrictions. Her name is Laurel Quinn.”
I bought another cup and carried it across the hall.
Laurel looked up from her laptop when I stopped in the doorway.
“Can I help you?”
“I thought you might want this.”
I held out the cup.
Her eyes moved from the coffee to my sling.
“Why?”
“Because the machine gave me two.”
She looked past me toward the machine, which required customers to press a button for every cup.
“No, it didn’t.”
I considered defending the lie.
Then I gave up.
“No, it didn’t.”
Her expression remained guarded.
“I don’t need anyone’s pity.”
“That’s good, because the coffee is terrible.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Denise said you’re allowed to have it. She did not promise you’d enjoy it.”
Laurel closed her laptop halfway.
“You asked my nurse whether I could drink coffee?”
“I didn’t want to create a medical emergency before lunch.”
For the first time, the tension around her mouth softened.
Not a smile.
Almost one.
“I can buy my own coffee.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why are you still standing there?”
“Because my arm hurts and walking back with two cups would be inconvenient.”
She looked at the cup again.
Then she reached for it.
Our fingers did not touch.
“Thank you,” she said quietly enough that I almost missed it.
“You may want to wait until it cools down.”
“Because it’s hot?”
“Because temperature is the only thing it has going for it.”
That time she smiled.
It lasted less than a second, but it changed her entire face.
I returned to my room and sat on the edge of the bed.
Across the hall, Laurel lifted the cup, took one cautious sip, and immediately frowned.
I laughed.
She looked over.
“You were right,” she called.
“About the coffee?”
“It’s terrible.”
“That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week.”
She shook her head.
But she did not close her door.
That afternoon, Sophie arrived carrying a paper bag from the hospital gift shop.
“What’s that?”
“A surprise.”
“For me?”
“No.”
That hurt more than the shoulder.