“Oh,” Abner said softly. “I guess that is the right word, then.” He paused, mouth open, like he was going to say something else, but only followed it with a slight shrug. “It’s okay, sir. Trauma or no, they always do what’s best for us.”

With that—and with no acknowledgement of the misplaced plural—he folded his legs and pulled the tray of food into his lap. The novelty of getting people food on a regular basis hadn’t worn off yet, but he tried to pace himself this time, trusting Anderson not to take it away from him. Still hot. He’d miss it when he went back to IVs and raw meat, but he knew that was all he deserved.

He slid the empty tray back across the floor when he was done, wiping his hands on his pants. “Thank you, sir. And...I mean for everything.“ Food, shelter, kindness—it was almost overwhelming. Almost made him feel like a person.

And, most concerning, a tiny part of him didn’t want it to end.