Page 117 of Ghost Ribbon

“We have to change your diet.”

I blinked. “Why?”

He set a plate in front of me. There were sliced strawberries arranged around something that looked like baked oats and Greek yogurt layered with crushed nuts and seeds. Next to it sat a glass of what looked like a strawberry smoothie, pale pink and much too healthy to be trusted.

“I read too much salt is bad. Processed food is bad. Excess sugar isn’t ideal. Fried food is bad. Energy drinks are obviously idiotic. Highly caffeinated garbage isn’t helping you. You need potassium, magnesium, better fats, better protein, more consistent meals, less skipping meals entirely.”

I just looked at him. He kept going.

“Also,” he said, “if your heart is already under strain, then starving yourself half the day and then eating whatever is nearest is no longer an option.”

“When,” I asked carefully, “did you read all of that?”

“This morning.”

“This morning?”

“Yes.”

“When this morning?”

He gave me a flat look. “Between deciding your previous doctor was incompetent, making Ilya stalk your information, and ordering your breakfast.”

“When did you make the appointment?”

“Before dawn.”

“When did you decide my doctor was incompetent?”

“The moment I saw the dates you missed and the medication schedule he gave you.”

I sighed, then. He had already pulled a little cluster of pill bottles and blister packs from beside the table. My stomach dropped.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “I read the information sheet on all of these.”

“Of course you did.”

“These five,” he pointed out, separating them with absurd precision, “need to be taken before your meal. The rest after. Correct?”

He had lined them up by dosage and timing.

“When,” I whispered, “did you have time to read that too?”

He looked faintly offended. “Marco.”

“I hate this part,” I muttered and then I picked up the first set and swallowed them one by one with water while he watched like a hawk making sure none of them disappeared mysteriously into a napkin. By the fourth one, my face had already twisted into a full grimace.

“You look like I’m poisoning you.”

“It feels like you’re poisoning me.”

“They are literally prescribed to keep you alive.”

“They still taste evil.”

“Like lemons?”