Page 25 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Not really,” he says. “Why?”

“Water freezes at thirty-two degrees. At sub-zero, all your food will be frozen.”

He laughs again. And then winces. I’m starting to regret being funny—even though I’m not trying to be.

“Sub-Zero is a brand.”

“Oh! So they call themselves subzero, but the temperature isn’t?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that’s as confusing as football. No wonder you picked them.”

He laughs again and I turn to hunt for a refrigerator. It only takes me three tries to guess the right cabinet.

“Found it!” I shout in toward Declan.

His voice comes through a hidden speaker in the kitchen and I jump. “You can use the intercom instead of yelling.”

“The intercom?”

“See that speaker with buttons along the wall by the door?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“That’s the intercom. Press the speaker button to talk.”

“And my voice will go throughout the whole house?”

“Downstairs. To talk to someone upstairs, you pick the room number.”

“Fancy,” I say, pressing the button and repeating “Fancy!”

“Hello?” I say, testing it again. “Declan O’Connell, this is your conscience speaking.” I pause. “Do not use the word fine.”

Declan doesn’t need to press the intercom. I hear the soft sound of his laughter filter through the hallway and into the kitchen.

The inside of the refrigerator looks like someone with serious OCD organized and cleaned it. And I’m not talking about the kind of OCD everyone says they have these days when they’re feeling particular about something. I’m talking about someone who would lose their center of gravity if a single cat hair landed on their slacks.

They have rows of neatly lined-up water bottles of several types: mountain spring, sparkling, alkaline, and smart. Smart water. Does it make you smarter? I guess I’ve never had that.

Next to the water are bottles of green drinks and purple drinks and burgundy drinks each bearing a printed label that says things like Kale Smoothie.

That one’s a definite no.

The next few shelves have stacked tin casserole dishes in varying sizes, all with white cardboard tops and printed labels with the name of the dish and the cooking instructions. I look those over and decide on a few offerings.

I walk over to the intercom. “Attention, Declan. Here are your menu options. You could have a kale smoothie, though I don’t know why you would. Also, there are beet smoothies and blueberry-acai smoothies. I’d go with that last one if I were you. You have vegetable lasagna, chicken stroganoff and beef tips with mashed potatoes. What sounds good?”

He answers me. “If you just want to reach me, push that button that says FR. That’s the front room. That way your voice doesn’t go through the whole downstairs.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And I’ll take a kale smoothie and a serving of lasagna. Are you joining me?”

I have eaten with patients before. Sometimes I bring my own food. When I’m caring for elderly patients, or when I’ve had a child in my care and the family invites me, I’ve joined them for meals. Declan’s situation feels different—more formal. I mean, the man has an intercom and his refrigerator is swankier and better organized than my … anything.

“Do you want me to join you?” I ask.