For the first time in a long time, food feels like an afterthought. Carver stares at the plate, reaching out to make sure it doesn’t tip over and make a wasteful mess. He needs to eat but he’s not hungry: doesn’t feel much of anything, really. He wonders if this deadened calm is better or worse than the manic energy that bursts through him sometimes.

The cat shouldn’t have people food, though. So, there’s that.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, lifting the plate out of the way as Dulcinea trots over and immediately goes onto her hind legs to try and snag some of the bread. “I know I need to plan shit,” he adds after a moment. “But I can’t right now. Not yet.”