She eyes him a little. Worry is melting into suspicion that perhaps he's not so much sick as he is miserable.

"I honestly couldn't say, other'n it should be safe for you t'take."

She brings over the tray, pouring him a small glass of orange juice as well as a cup of hot chamomile tea with lemon and honey.

"If all y'can manage is toast, that's all right. But I thought grits might stick t'your ribs a bit more, an' still be gentle. An' the Miss also gave you some fruit an' cereal, if that suits better. Drink the tea, though. It'll be good for you."

She lines up the small selection of medicine she acquired on the bookshelf beside the bed, well within his reach.