“Have you eaten? Can I make you something?” “No, thanks. Maybe a banana. If it’s all right.” “Nic . . . What can I do to help?” There are tears in her eyes. She blinks. “Just tell me what I can do.” Nic mumbles something incoherent, an apology, and takes a banana from the basket in the kitchen. He says thank you and mutters I’m sorry and then walks briskly out the front door and up the driveway. “Nic!” She hurries after him, calls to him, but he doesn’t stop.
