When they first set out on the road, Claire won't eat for almost three days. At first he just shrugs when she shakes her head and declines every time yet another tired diner waitress comes to take their orders. By the second night, he shoves the menu across the table at her, raising his eyebrows, trying to look stern. (He fails, for he can look quite intimidating, but not stern. Stern is authoritarian, a parental word. He is nobody's child anymore, but he is nobody's boss either. Certainly nobody's father.)
"I'm not hungry," she insists. Her voice is sharp, cold, but still tinged with its Texas twang.
He doesn't believe her, but he can't make her eat. He's doing all of this so that she can be free. He's not going to start this journey by making her do anything.
The third day, he orders two breakfasts. He sets the second one in the middle of the table and begins slowly eating off his own plate, staring into Claire's guarded hazel eyes with each bite.
She snaps at him; hunger and grief are making her edgy. "I told you, I've lost my appetite. I think I'm sick, OK?"
"I know you are sick. I didn't eat for a week when they brought me here. It didn't help. Eat some toast."
She huffs, an annoyed sound, but her face gentles a little. She understands. Not who "they" are, or why they took him, none of that, but she understands that he lost all of the things that she is still mourning.
She eats the whole plate of food, forcing it down at first, then gobbling when her hunger hits her after the first few bites. Her stomach rebels when they reach the parking lot, and she throws up half of her meal behind an El Camino. He turns away, though he's not sure if its because he wants to give her privacy or because it reminds him a little too much of his own first breakfast in America.