[There's a soft conversation, a higher, petulant voice insisting that they want to come inside and make friends, and then a short "absolutely not, go away" from Corry before the door closes. Then he returns with some fancy Michael-Kors-esque tote bag, out of which he produces a steaming to-go container of soup, copious amounts of cold medicine, water, Gatorade, the whole nine yards.]
no subject
Sorry. My assistant is -- shrill.