Tally was standing on a chair again. Butter knife in hand, she was furiously spreading jam on toast like it owed her answers. Her little brow was furrowed in determined concentration—half chef, half warrior.
Toshia manned the stove, pan sizzling like it had secrets. And me? I was just trying not to get in the way of whatever version of peace this breakfast was trying to create.
The safehouse kitchen had never felt so alive.
We hadn’t had a full table since... before everything. Before Sam and I tore out of that place like fire through dry grass. Before Tally’s dad ended up bruised, stitched, and half-conscious down in the basement med room.
But today he was joining us. Tally had insisted on the “big breakfast,” complete with pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, and toast—all for him.
“Auntie
