the day begins as it always does. She is his eyes, his hands, his constant help in everything. She is the one who tells him everything around him, describing the slant of the morning sun through the window, the fresh scent of the newly cut grass, the way the light catches the silver handle of the walking stick by his bed.
She carefully changes his eye bandage, her movements practiced and gentle, and puts the prescribed drops in his eyes. Then, she takes him to walk outside in the garden, guiding his hand to the rough bark of the oak tree and leading him along the familiar gravel path.
He stops abruptly, the heat making his brow slick. "I want to take a shower. It's hot outside."
"Okay, I know," she replies, already shaking her head softly. "But you can't. We just changed your eye bandage, and it will get wet from the shower."
He says it again, the warmth of the sun and the frustration of his situation hardening his voice. "I don't care." He turns his face toward her, the fresh white bandage a stark contrast to his tanned skin. "Unbutton my shirt. I want a shower."
Before she can offer a gentle protest or try to reason with him, he cuts her off, his voice firm and cold, a tone she knows signals the end of a discussion.
"I said, unbutton my shirt and help me in the shower. Or I'll fire you?"