“Aspirin,” I said. “And number 27 and 53. Spring rolls and pork char sui.”
He laughed but he didn’t smile.
“Not as stupid as you look,” he squeaked.
I held the take-out tray across the tea chests toward him. He took it in his hand but he started to wobble and I had to take it back again.
“No strength,” he squeaked.
I squeezed between the tea chests. I squatted down beside him. I held the tray up and shined the light onto the food. He dipped his finger in. He licked his finger and groaned. He stuck his finger in again and hooked a long slimy string of bean sprouts and sauce. He stuck his tongue out and licked. He slurped out pieces of pork and mushrooms. He shoved the spring rolls into his mouth. The red sauce trickled down from his lips, down over his chin onto his black jacket.
“Aaaah,” he said. “Ooooooh.”
He sounded like he was loving it, or he was in pain, or both those things together. I held the tray closer to his chin. He dipped and licked and groaned.
His fingers were twisted and stunted. His knuckles were swollen.
“Put the aspirin in,” he said.
I put two aspirin in the sauce and he picked them out and swallowed them.
He belched and belched. His hand slipped to his side again. His head slumped back against the wall.
“Food of the gods,” he whispered. “27 and 53.”