"Just the noodles."
"You know, we got fresh vegetables in yesterday. Actual food."
"The noodles are actual food."
"If you say so, dear." She shook her head with fond disapproval as she rang me up.
Back at the truck, I set the plastic bag on the seat between us. Sarah immediately peered inside with undisguised curiosity.
"Noodles again, Uncle C?"
"Noodles are reliable."
"Noodles are boring."
"Noodles are efficient."
"You always say that about everything." She sat back with a dramatic sigh.
Emma said nothing, but I caught her slight smile from the corner of my eye.
At her cabin, the routine was becoming comfortably familiar: retrieve the crutches from the back, help her carefully up the porch steps, make sure she was stable inside before letting go. I placed two of the instant noodle cups on her dining table and was turning to leave, ready to say my usual goodbye, when her voice stopped me.
"Would you two like to stay for dinner?"
I turned back, surprised. She was leaning against her kitchen counter for support, her expression open but slightly hesitant.
"The house feels really empty lately," she added quietly, almost apologetically. "Too quiet, especially in the evenings. The quiet gets... loud, if that makes any sense."
It made perfect sense. I knew that kind of loud silence intimately.
Sarah's face lit up instantly like someone had flipped a switch. "Can we, Uncle C? Please?"
I should have said no. She was injured. I was imposing. But she was looking at me with those warm hazel eyes, and the thought of her sitting alone in that oppressive silence with her throbbing ankle...
"If you're absolutely sure we're not being a burden," I said carefully.
"You're not a burden," she said, and she sounded like she genuinely meant it. "Honestly, you'd be doing me a favor."
I helped her settle carefully at the small kitchen table, making sure she could elevate her injured ankle on an empty chair. Then I went about boiling water in her kettle, moving through her kitchen with the awkwardness of someone navigating unfamiliar territory.
Sarah settled into a chair across from Emma, swinging her legs, chattering happily about her day.
"And then Marcus tried to eat glue again during art time, and Ms. Reed had to explain why glue isn't actually food."
"Glue definitely isn't food," I confirmed from the stove.
"That's exactly what Ms. Reed said! But Marcus said it smelled really good, so it should taste good too."
"Marcus has concerning instincts about what constitutes food."
"He also tried to eat a crayon last week," Sarah added thoughtfully. "The purple one."
"Was it good?" Emma asked with mock seriousness.
"He said it tasted like wax."
Emma laughed from her chair, the sound warming the entire small kitchen despite everything. I pulled out the first brightred-and-yellow noodle cup and set it on the table in front of her, along with a fork.
