“It is tomorrow, but I just wanted to drop this off.” He extends a round to-go container toward me. It’s warm in my hands and looks like some sort of food, but the Tupperware is cloudy. “It’s homemade chicken noodle soup to help you feel better.” Nash shuffles his feet, then looks down and back at me like he’s embarrassed by his gesture. “I know you’re not sick . . . but you know what they say, it’s good for the soul.”
