Henrik's room in the medical wing at four-thirty had been rearranged since the last time William had been in it.
The briefing files were gone. The visitor chair had been moved. Henrik himself was sitting upright with the improved posture of someone who had spent two days arguing with medical staff about whether they actually needed to rest and had won several of the arguments.
Sara had brought food from the dining hall in a small covered container — the specific items that the medical wing didn't serve, things that were warm and had actual flavor. Henrik received this with the expression of a man who had been eating institutional food for a week and was not performing gratitude.
"This is genuinely appreciated," he said, opening the container.
"You contributed to several things this week while having a broken arm," Sara said. "It seemed like the minimum."
"Several people have been saying things like that to me today," Henrik said. "I'm not certain what to do with it."
