He had a tray with him. Now he picked up a plate and held it in front of her. It was good bacon, quarter-inch-thick strips, and it had warped and bubbled as he fried it; he’d let one end of it char a little because he knew she liked it burned. Had liked it.

Well, he’d done something with his seven years. He didn’t used to be able to cook worth a damn.

She was tired, and she was famished—she wasn’t, her mind wasn’t, it was clear as a bell, but this body was hungry, this doll made of meat. It was weak, and it reached out and picked up the food and put it in her mouth. The meat took over and ate the other meat, and God it was fucking unbelievable, salty and fatty and smoky. When she was done she licked her thumbs and wiped her greasy hands on the sheets. It revolted her, she revolted herself, but there was so much pleasure in it. She was trying to reject her body like a bad organ transplant but she could feel herself trapped in its sticky embrace. It was trying to adhere to her, trying to become her, and Quentin was helping it. He was on its side.

“I hope,” she said, “that you don’t think you’re going to keep me here with bacon.”

“Not just bacon.”

He handed her a plate with fresh slices of mango on it, intensely orange, like little arcs carved off a tiny sweet sun. She fell on them like an animal. She was an animal.

No, she was not. She was pure and beautiful and blue.

“Why did you do it?” she asked with her mouth full. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Because this is who you are. Because you’re human. You’re a person, you’re not a demon.”

“Prove it.”

“I am proving it.”

She looked at him, really looked for the first time since she’d been back. He had a narrow, symmetrical face, rendered interesting by a slightly too-large nose and an expressive, too-wide mouth. He never knew it, which had saved him from developing one of those pretty-boy personalities, but objectively he’d always been handsome. And he still was.

But he was different now too. He didn’t stutter or duck her gaze the way he used to. He was right, he had changed.

“You could’ve got oysters,” she said.

“You hate oysters.”

“Do I?”

“You used to say they were like cold snot.”

“I can’t remember. What else do I like?”

“Hot baths. Fresh socks. Really big sneezes. That feeling when you successfully flip a pancake. And this.”