Dave gently cuts open the grapefruit laid out for him and spreads it to see the cross-section, careful not to butcher the layers of citrus.

It's soft inside, red or perhaps scarlet in color, and velvety, silky in texture—perfect.

He trails his fingers over the central core, tenderly picking it out. He brings his hand, the one that isn't bandaged, up to his lips, licking the juice that spills down his knuckles.

Sticky.