We head to the kitchen, and I pull out breakfast supplies. The power's still out, but the gas works. Small mercies.
Madison doesn't wait for instructions. She starts rummaging through my fridge, pulling out eggs and bread and ingredients with the efficiency of someone who's spent years in kitchens.
"Your bread is stale," she informs me.
"It's three days old."
"Like I said. Stale." She's already cracking eggs. "I'm making French toast. You can handle the bacon."
"I can handle the bacon," I repeat.
"Don't sound so wounded. I'm sure you're very competent at bacon."
"I'm competent at most things."
"Humble, too."
We work side by side, and I notice that she moves well in a kitchen. Dances on her toes a little when she’s happy with what she’s done.
Breakfast comes together quickly. Her French toast is better than mine would have been, not that I'd admit it, and we eat standing at the counter because the kitchen is warmer than the dining room.
"So," she says around a bite of bacon, "what does one do during a blizzard in the middle of nowhere?"
"Read. Sleep. Contemplate existence."
"Thrilling."
"I have board games."
Her eyes light up in a way that's almost concerning. "What kind?"
"Scrabble. Chess."
She sets down her plate. "Scrabble. You and me. Right now."
"You play?"
"I destroy."
I've played Scrabble with enough people to know that most of them overestimate their abilities. Words seem easy until you're staring at a rack full of vowels and trying to remember if QI is actually acceptable.
"Stakes?" I ask.
"Loser does dishes."
"You're on."
*****
She wasn't exaggerating.
Madison Tate plays Scrabble like she's conducting a military campaign. Every word is calculated. Every tile placement is strategic. She builds off my words with ruthless efficiency and drops seven-letter bonuses like they're nothing.
"Quixotry?" I challenge. "That's not a word."
"It means quixotic behavior. Noun form." She marks down her points. "Triple word score."
"You're making things up."
