He said not to worry, but I can't help my growing concern. The ends of my crutches catch on the carpet when I don't lift them up high enough, but I manage to make it to the kitchen without falling on my face.
My eyes water with the haze billowing out of the small area. I twist the knob, turning the stove off, but a steady stream of smoke continues to rise from a blackened pan with what looks like burned and shriveled eggs. The smoke tenderloins reach up toward the ceiling as if calling for help from whatever torture he's put them through this morning. A stack of dishes rises over the edge of the sink and there're bits of scrambled egg squashed to the floor. I'm not sure who made breakfast—Nate or Emma.
How did all this damage happen in the few minutes it took me to turtle walk from my be
