-Rider-
“It’s a sandwich, not a bomb. Just taste it,” I said, holding out the sandwich.
James was slumped on the couch in my living room, his gaze fixed on the fireplace. That’s how he spent most of his time—just staring at the flames. Even in July, he couldn’t seem to stay warm otherwise.
He was still hooked up to an IV because he refused to eat or drink. I had tried everything, but he wouldn’t talk, eat, or sleep. He just sat there wrapped in a blanket, wearing a pair of black sweatpants that barely stayed on him and a black t-shirt that was several sizes too big.
“Come on, just take a bite,” I coaxed.
James turned his vacant eyes towards me, his expression one of deep frustration as if he wished I would disappear. But I wasn’t going anywhere. I sat down on the coffee table again,
