It’s hard to really know what counts as my day starting since I’m woken up every few hours for vitals checks, and every time I’m just about to fall asleep it’s time for a check again. I haven’t seen sunlight in a while either. It seemed like it was only fair that Oliver got the window after I dragged him into this mess. Though it’s not a mess, it’s more of an adventure, I remind myself for the millionth time. An adventure with Jell-O pudding cups and fruit cocktails and mashed potatoes that are a weird gray color. Our new living quarters are a far cry from the HDTVs and bagels and pizza from the warehouse. The hospital is fine, but it is just very much … a hospital.

I look up to see who has walked into our room. I expect it to be Joey—hope it’ll be Joey. But it’s not. It’s someone I haven’t seen before, and he’s carrying a basket almost as big as him. It’s stuffed full of all kinds of food.

“Um, excuse me, I have a package for you.” His eyes are big in his hazmat suit as he nervously looks around the room, taking it all in.

He puts the basket down in the doorway, gives me a quick look, and I see a brief wrinkle in his nose that I’ve come to recognize as disgust. He scoots out the door quickly.

I look at the curtain between Oliver’s bed and mine. He’s quiet over there, though I heard him moving around a little while ago, so I think he’s awake.

I climb out of bed, scoop up the basket, and grab the card that’s sitting at the top. It’s addressed to me, and I’m surprised at how excited I am. The excitement immediately turns to disappointment when I see that it’s from Goldy.

Hope this helps make you feel better soon! I’m surprised she managed to spell everything correctly, but I figure whoever put the basket together probably fixed all the misspellings and typos.

I grab the food out of the basket. It doesn’t look great, but it has to be better than the room-temperature pudding I’ve been eating. I open a bag of cookies and take a nibble. It’s not bad, but it tastes like it’s missing something. I look at the bag more closely and see the words gluten free. I pull out the bag of chips, same thing. I dig around some more, and everything seems to be gluten free, even down to the box of raisins. “Because raisins are usually loaded with gluten,” I mutter. I doubt she even knows what gluten is.

“What did you say?” Oliver’s voice on the other side of the curtain makes me drop the box of raisins.

I don’t know what to say. I look around in the basket some more. At the very bottom is a box of gluten-free pancake mix. “Good thing I have my hot griddle with me here,” I say. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the lack of direct sunlight, maybe it’s the lack of fresh air, maybe I just don’t know what else to do, so I slide the box of pancake mix under the curtain in our room. For some reason I think Oliver might get a kick out of it.

He yelps, then rips open the curtain. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. “How did you know?”

“Oh god, you’re gluten free too?” I ask. “I mean, I know it’s a really serious allergy, but I also know a lot of people like dieting trends, including Goldy.” I hate that the first conversation I have with Oliver in two days is about her.

“What?” He looks confused. “No, no. Gluten is good. I guess. I don’t know. I’ve never really given it much thought.” He shakes the pancake mix. “But waffles are not the same as pancakes!”

I have no clue what he’s talking about, but he looks so ridiculous in his hospital gown holding a box of pancake mix that I start laughing.

“Waffles are funny?” He starts laughing too. I don’t know what he’s laughing at, but I’m so relieved to see him happy again, and I’m so happy to be having a conversation with him, even if I have no clue what he’s talking about.