“I haven’t felt like talking.”

“Marta said you’re not eating.”

“Not hungry.”

I stand, too irritated to sit still. “Listen, I get that this situation sucks, but you’re not going to make anything better for anyone if you mope and ignore the doctor’s orders.”

He levels me with an angry gaze. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be nothing but a burden? Grandma can’t afford to take care of me, and she’s been cashing out her retirement to get by, and now she has my medical bills on top of it. Because I fucked up.”

I wince at his language—Marta doesn’t allow cursing in her house—but let it go and focus on the rest. “She doesn’t think you’re a burden.”

“Do you know why Jess broke up with me? For real? She was sick of dealing with my grief over Dad. She said I’m too young to be so sad all the time, and she didn’t want me dragging her down.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry, Isaiah. She’s being immature, and that’s not fair to you. You’re entitled to all the time you need to grieve, and—”

“Stop. I don’t want your inspirational speech.”

The soft rap on the door saves me from trying to come up with a response. “Hello?” Teagan calls, stepping into the room.

Isaiah gapes. “You brought her?” He looks around his room, as if he’s going to jump up and start cleaning. “Jesus, Carter, a little warning?”

Teagan chuckles softly and leans against the doorframe, a glass of some dark liquid in one hand. “No appetite?”

By whatever magic, her words seem to take the sulk out of Isaiah, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to eat.”

“How about a milkshake?” Teagan says, lifting the glass. “Just a little something to coat your stomach so you can take your pain meds.”

“I don’t need ’em. I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can, but the human body isn’t made to sleep through pain, and the less you sleep, the longer it’s going to take to heal.” She steps into the room and offers him the glass and a straw.

He holds her gaze as he accepts it and takes a few sips.

“Nice,” she says, and her voice is sincere, as if she’s complimenting him for solving some complex math problem and not for drinking a chocolate shake. She hands him pills and the water bottle from his bedside table. “Now these.”

He takes them without complaint, a slight flush to his cheeks. He’s just a kid, but he’s too proud to let a pretty woman see him sulk.

She surprises me when she sits on the edge of his bed and puts a hand to his head. She tilts his face side to side, looking into one eye then the other. Seemingly satisfied with what she sees, she lifts his hand and looks at her watch as she takes his pulse.

“Do you do house calls for all of your patients?” Isaiah asks.