Foggy day.
"D-Did your husband have any unusual... hih..."
He's young, this agent. Wet hair, chattering teeth.
"Any unusual h-ahh... habits? Possibly concerning oatmeal? Hih-KKHKGHHFF-hh!"
He's sneezed into his tea, spilled it over his wrists, down his pants. Hissing, he passes the mug back and forth, shaking droplets off his fingers.
"I'b sorry." He snuffles, starts to wipe his nose on his sleeve, seems to think better of it.
She moves in with tissues, a towel. Waits while he blows his nose with flaming hands. Wonders how he knew about the oatmeal.
"My husband's gone. Come back when you're well."