The little girl's eyes opened.
She studied Nora with the seriousness of a much older person, then looked at the soup. "Does it have carrots?"
"Small ones. They haven't caused any trouble today."
The girl almost smiled. "My mom says carrots don't know when to stop being carrots."
"Your mom sounds funny."
"She is," the girl said, in a voice so quiet Nora nearly missed it. "She is very funny."
The father looked down at her. For one second the effort of holding his expression together seemed to hurt him physically.
"I'm Andre Hayes," he said. "This is my daughter, Lila."
"Nora. It's good to meet you both."
Andre glanced at the food again. "We've been here since this morning. I meant to take her downstairs earlier, but they said there might be news, and I didn't want to miss it."
"Then you're in the right place now," Nora told him. "The doctors know how to find you."
He nodded without appearing to believe her.
Nora moved the tray closer and put the coffee within his reach. Lila reached for a piece of chicken, then hesitated until Andre told her it was all right.
He tried to pull the soup toward the girl, but she pushed it back.
"You first, Daddy."
"I'm not hungry, sweetheart."
Nora had heard those four words a thousand times in the cafeteria. Sometimes they meant that a person had lost their appetite, but sometimes they meant there was too much grief or fear in the space where hunger should have been.
"Just one spoonful," she said. "You can argue with me after that."
Andre gave a small, tired laugh. It was the first sound he had made that didn't seem to cost him something.
He lifted the spoon, swallowed, and closed his eyes. Then he took another.
Lila watched closely before taking her own bite.
"There," Nora said. "We're making progress."
A telephone rang somewhere beyond the service doors. Andre flinched so sharply that soup splashed against the edge of his bowl.
"Sorry," he said at once.
"For what?"
He looked at the spot on the table. "I don't know."
Nora handed him the extra napkin and pretended not to notice how his fingers shook.
She had learned that kindness often required making room for a person's dignity. A man who had sat through ten hours of hospital waiting didn't need a stranger announcing to the room that he was falling apart.
She took a step toward the kitchen, and Lila caught the hem of her apron.
"Miss Nora?"
"Yes?"
"Can I have a pen?"
"Of course."
Nora unclipped a blue ballpoint from her pocket and placed it beside the napkins. Lila cupped her hand around it, glanced at her father, and whispered, "It's a secret for now."
Nora winked. "I know how to keep a secret about stationery."
When Nora returned to the counter, Andre was still eating, one careful spoonful at a time, while his daughter bent over a square of paper and wrote with fierce concentration.