I let myself be steered toward the couch, too stunned by the early hour and the sheer unexpectedness of the situation to mount any real resistance. "But it's seven-thirty in the morning. On a Saturday."
"Breakfast is a morning meal," Cole said, as if this explained everything perfectly. "Seemed like the appropriate time to make it."
"Uncle C woke me up at six," Sarah added helpfully, climbing onto one of my kitchen chairs to survey the counter. "He said we had a mission."
"A mission," I repeated faintly, sinking onto the couch cushions.
"A very important mission." Sarah nodded with exaggerated solemnity. "Operation Feed Ms. Reed. That's what he called it."
"I didn't call it that," Cole muttered, unloading grocery bags onto my counter.
"You did. In the truck."
"The truck conversation was classified."
"What does classified mean?"
"It means I'm not admitting to anything."
I sat on the couch, my crutches propped beside me, and watched with growing amazement as they systematically took over my small kitchen. Cole pulled out his phone and propped it carefully against my tea kettle, studying the screen with the intense concentration of a man deciphering ancient tactical maps or complex military strategy.
"Okay, Sarah. First thing we need is a bowl. Big one."
Sarah scrambled down from the chair, retrieved my largest mixing bowl from the cabinet she'd apparently already memorized the location of from how often they’d been coming, and placed it on the counter with a decisive thunk.
"Flour. Two cups." He held up a bag of all-purpose flour, squinting between his phone screen and the measuring cup with deep suspicion. He poured with exaggerated care. A small cloud of white erupted into the air anyway, dusting his flannel sleeve.
Sarah giggled delightedly. "You made it snow, Uncle C!"
"That's... intentional. Flour distribution technique."
"Is that what the video says?"
"The video didn't specifically address flour clouds, no."
I bit my lip firmly to keep from laughing out loud. He was so serious about this entire endeavor. So utterly determined to get it right.
"Now the baking powder," Cole muttered, reading intently from his phone. "Two teaspoons. Not tablespoons. Apparently, that distinction matters significantly."
"What's the difference?"
"Size. Tablespoons are bigger. Three times bigger, according to my research."
"Why don't they just say big spoon and little spoon? That would be way easier."
"That's an excellent question I genuinely don't have a satisfying answer to."
I watched him measure each ingredient with precision, his large, weathered hands handling the small measuring spoons with almost comical care. He added salt, sugar, and whisked the dry ingredients together with intensity.
"Now the wet ingredients," he announced like a commander issuing orders. "Separate bowl. Sarah, you're on egg duty."
Sarah accepted an egg from the carton with the reverence of someone handling live explosives. "On the flat part of the counter, right? Not the edge of the bowl?"
"That's what the video showed, yes."
She tapped the egg gingerly against the countertop. Nothing happened. She tapped again, slightly harder. Still nothing. She tapped with more force. The egg collapsed with a soggy crunch, shell fragments and golden yolk cascading messily over her small fingers and onto my counter.
"Oops," she whispered, her brown eyes going wide with horror. "I broke it wrong."
