"Have Bruce and Tim called in yet?"
 	Leslie's voice sounded old and tired, Alfred thought
sadly.
 	"They have not," he answered neutrally.  "And how is
our young master?"
 	Leslie inclined her head.  She bit her lip for a
moment and then looked straight up at Alfred.  "We've
found evidence of an infection," she explained.  "If
there's any way to get Bruce back here-"
 	Alfred shook his head.
 	Leslie sighed.  "Of course not.  How silly of me to
ask."
 	"Allow me to prepare you a bowl of soup," Alfred
decided, reaching for a bowl and his ladle.  The large
pot of soup had been on the stove all day, simmering
quietly in case someone could manage to choke down
some food. "It's not healthy to go without food for
too long-something this family does not seem to
understand."
 	"I've noticed that," Leslie agreed dryly, pouring
herself a glass of water. "What kind of soup?"
 	"Chicken noodle," Alfred told her.
 	She watched his hand shake as he ladled the soup
into the bowl and reached to place her own hand softly
over his.  Their eyes met.
 	"You haven't eaten either," she accused him gently.
 	Alfred cleared his throat and looked away.
 	"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," he admitted.  "Who
can eat a time like this?"
 	"Sit down with me," Leslie asked.  "Please."  She
took the ladle from Alfred and poured a second bowl. 
She took both bowls and set them down on the table,
taking the nearest far chair.
 	Tentatively, Alfred sat down in front of the other
bowl.  He lifted the spoon but set it down again,
choosing instead to reach across the table and take
Leslie's hand again.
 	"Thank you," he said, "for saving him.  They are all
I have."
 	"No," Leslie said, folding her other hand over his. 
"They're not."