“I’m not,” he says, on the morning of the third day, when Guddu’s still refusing to eat what he cooks—wanker can’t cook anything, burns rice—and is consequently retching weakly into the commode, safely pinned down, “I didn’t kill Baba. I wasn’t…” even there, Guddu, come on.
“I ne…” Charlie has to fight to remember the retching’s likelier food poisoning than revulsion. “Never sa…said you di… did.”
You kept me from helping cremate Baba because I’m not Hindu. “D’you want Eno?” he offers, instead. Taking care of Guddu is familiar territory.
“I’m f… fine,” Guddu says, and retches again.
Right. So that happened. Anyhoo, if you want me writing you an opposite-drabble, whatever that is, comment?