Annie’s prepared what used to be my favorite: roast beef and baby red potatoes slow cooked in the crock pot. At this moment the mere sight of food is repulsive, the commingling of smells tickling my taste buds like a dose of ipecac.

“Wyatt, I wish you’d eat something. Anything, really,” Annie says pleading.

“I’m just… not hungry.”

“Well I haven’t seen you eat anything in days. Nothing except for that damn bottle you’re always...