You pick up the spoon.
Amara’s shoulders tighten.
Ruth leans forward.
You lift the spoon close to your mouth, then pause. “It smells different.”
For one second, Ruth’s smile flickers.
“Different?” she asks.
“Yes.” You lower the spoon. “Better than usual.”
Relief flashes across her face so fast that only someone looking for guilt would catch it.
Amara brings a glass of water to your side. Her hand is steady now. That makes you proud.
You pretend to eat.
The trick is simple. You raise the spoon. You let Ruth watch. Then you lower it into the napkin spread across your lap, hidden by the table edge. Again and again, you fake every bite while Ruth’s eyes shine with satisfaction.
After a few minutes, you place your spoon down.
“Delicious,” you say.
Ruth smiles.
“Good,” she says. “You need your strength.”
You almost laugh at the evil of it.
Instead, you cough.
Just once.
Ruth’s eyes sharpen.
You cough again, harder this time, and let your hand tremble against the table.
Amara steps forward. “Sir?”
You close your eyes and let your head tilt slightly.
Ruth stands so quickly her chair scrapes the floor. Not with fear. With excitement.
“Michael?” she says.
You breathe heavily, playing the role she wrote for you.
Amara reaches your side and touches your shoulder. “Mr. Williams, are you okay?”
“My head,” you whisper.
Ruth moves closer. “Maybe you’re just tired.”
Her voice is soft, but her eyes are alive.
That look tells you everything.
Not suspicion.
Hope.
She wanted this.
You force yourself to slump.
Amara grips your wheelchair handles. “I should call Dr. Patel.”
“No,” Ruth snaps.
Too fast.
Too loud.
The room goes silent.
Then Ruth fixes her face. “I mean, don’t panic. Michael has these episodes. We don’t need to bother the doctor over every little thing.”
You keep your breathing shallow.
