By the fourth morning, Dean had developed a personal hatred for breakfast.
By the sixth, breakfast was no longer the problem.
Everything was.
The first warning had been cherries. That had seemed manageable.
Then eggs became impossible.
Coffee followed two days later, which Dean considered an act of biological cruelty severe enough to justify complaining to Seven at length. Toast lasted another morning before the smell of warm bread sent him away from the dining table with one hand over his mouth.
By the end of the week, the private kitchen staff had stopped attempting to predict what Dean might tolerate.
They simply prepared options.
Cold fruit. Plain crackers. Rice. Broth. Soft cheese. Dry cereal. Several forms of potato.
Anything with enough nutritional value to satisfy the medical board and little enough scent to avoid triggering Dean before it reached the plate.
Most of it failed.
