She tapped once on Green’s door and entered just as he invited her in. “Brought you chicken soup even though you’re not fighting the flu.”

“Bless you, I was trying to figure what to have tonight. Just put it in the refrigerator, please. I can warm it in the container?”

“You can, but pouring it into a bowl with one of your small plates on top is safer.”

“Okay. Any chance you can stay to visit a bit?”

“Need to deliver three others, two in bed.”

He nodded. “Better see to them first. Thank you. If you hear any good news, I could sure do with some.” He waved at the TV. “Not any more gloom and doom. You hear there was another shooting in a school? North Carolina this time. Sure hope they catch the ba— Ah, the shooter.”

“What is this country coming to?” Amalia headed for the door. “You know to call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, go about your angel-of-mercy assignation.”

“By the way,” Amalia added, “I got a new book called The Joys of Bird-Watching. You might like it when I’m done.”

“Print or ebook?”

“Print. Call if you need me.” She waved to him and headed for the elevator. Earlier in the day she would have taken the stairs. She stopped at 216 and tapped on the door as she pushed it open.

“Brought you some chicken soup. Supposed to be good against colds and flu. You want to eat now or later?”

“Thanks,” came a wavery voice from the bedroom. “I don’t feel much like eating so just put it in the refrigerator.”

Amalia shook her head and dug the tray out of the cookie sheet slot in the woman’s kitchen. “You’re eating now.”

“I just can’t.”

“Agatha June Spencer, you are going to eat now if I have to feed you myself. You want to end up back in the hospital?” She poured the soup in a bowl, topped it with a plate, and turned the microwave to two minutes. While the soup heated, she set up the tray. “What have you had to drink today?”

“I finished the pitcher of water you left.” The voice was sounding stronger. How much was true flu, and how much was sheer depression? Agatha’s son had died two months earlier and she’d been struck down by the grief, taking away all her will to live. Amalia finished setting up the tray and carried it into the bedroom.

“Good old remedy for what ails you, chicken soup and homemade bread. You want coffee, tea, or juice to go with this?”

“None, thank you.”

“Okay, tea it will be. And I’ll refill the pitcher. Good for you on your drinking today. Now, which will it be, sitting up in bed, the tray on your lap, or I’ll help you move into that chair and set up the TV tray?”

“Amalia, you are not listening to me, I just do not feel like eating.”

“Got it. We’ll get you sitting up and I will feed you.”