He ate through half the bowl of soup before he figured out how ill he was feeling. It had been weeks since he'd had a real meal, and now his stomach was revolting against the idea of food. He set the bowl in his lap, the slice of sweet bread still sitting there waiting to be eaten. The women were both gone, so he set the bowl and bread on the tray where they'd left it and rested his head back against the pillow.<br/><br/>For a long while, he focused on simply breathing, trying to force himself not to be sick. It seemed forever before he finally began to feel better. As his condition improved, so did his level of comfort. The more comfortable he felt, the more sleepy he became. He was full, his pain was decreasing, and he was warm. Before he knew it, he was drifting off to sleep.<br/><br/>He woke surprisingly easy when the sound of the door announced Ann's return. She was carrying a box and he sat up straighter. Perhaps she was bringing a chore for him. When he saw the dilapidated and damaged knives, he felt a stirring of motivation. This, he could do.<br/><br/>Glancing up at her, he considered her question, then shook his head. He would likely be needing to visit the pot soon, but he would never allow her to do it for him. He began looking through the box, located the tools inside it, then selected the first one he would repair.