There's a story in the old monastic rulebook about a monk lying sick with a stomach illness, in his own filth. The Buddha, making his rounds with Ananda, finds him and asks why the others don't tend him. Because, the man says, he's of no use to them. The Buddha sends Ananda for water and pours it over the man, Ananda wipes him down, and together they lift him onto his bed. Only afterward does he gather the monks: you've no mothers or fathers here, he says, and if you don't look after one another, who will? Then, this being a rulebook, he makes it a rule. Nobody had been cruel to that monk. He'd just stopped being useful, and the care had started running on a ledger. A friend of yours has likely dropped out of circulation the same way, ill or just low. Today, do one plain thing for them, soup or a lift, and skip the speech.