S.T. had earned real food by virtue of sticking it out in this dive for three weeks. But pointing that out would be rubbing glaze onto newly-thrown wounds. Or something.

"Porcelain? As in toilets, or a general hatred of fine china?" There were legitimate reasons to shy away from table dressing of dubious origin. Radioactive Fiestaware. Dioxin-laden paper plates. Styrofoam wouldn't kill you directly, its production would just leech away the ozone layer until they all died of skin cancer.

Bizarre phobias he couldn't fix. And acting like he agreed with the nurses would shipwreck the conversation. (Was it acting if it was an honest reaction? O.K., call it not acting like he ran into ceramiphobes every day.) He couldn't change the layout, either, but it had never been very confusing to him. "I do have a map, if that helps."