"You cretin," Autor says, scoffing. "Why would I go to the trouble of receiving something I didn't want in the first place?"

He sets The Language of Flowers down in his lap and folds his arms. Despite his slouching posture, his expression is completely serious. "I hope you get sick of trying to take care of me soon. I'm fine. Better than fine."

And it's true. Truer than it was, anyway. Autor's state is much improved from the starving, excitable stray he was when he arrived. His cheeks have color, he's developing wiry muscle, and he's only managed to massively injure himself a few times.

"In fact, I'm doing much better than you give me credit for."