DROP EIGHTEEN
Patty stared at the pickle on her lap. It was on a plate, with a fork and knife. Hector said she was to get small bites. He was in the kitchen making a sandwich for him. She caught a glimpse of him opening a can of pet food, but she hadn’t heard of any barking or meowing yet.
She was bedridden still, her eye darting around, making her even more dizzy.
Hector brought her an eyepatch, but she refused to wear it. She left it on the bedpost.
“Where in Ares’ name would you get an eyepatch?” she asked loud enough to be heard.
He yelled from the kitchen. “Costume party. I used to go to parties, alright? I was fun. Come on. Just wear it?” he pleaded, doing the dishes.
Patty said nothing. She had already declined. She grabbed the knife and her arm whirred, shuddering awkwardly.
