Vera drops the go bag on the sofa. Her shoulders sag for the first time. She has been carrying herself like a fortress since the cabin. Now that we have four walls and distance, she lets some of it go.
“Bedroom?” she asks.
“Down the hall,” I say. “On the right.”
She scoops Nadia up. The girl has gone quiet, thumb near her mouth now. She’s still clutching her teddy bear.
“I want to help,” Nadia murmurs into Vera’s shoulder.
“You did,” I tell her, tapping her nose. “You listened fast. That keeps people breathing.”
She nods, her eyes catching soft silver, then says, “I’m hungry.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Hungry means alive. We can work with alive.”
Raina watches all of this from the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself. The tension in her shoulders makes my own muscles ache. Vera sends Nadia to wash and change.
“Kitchen,” I say, pointing the way.
Raina blinks. “What?”
Nadia’s first memory of me is already gunfire and broken glass. All I can do is soften the next thing. “Come,” I tell Raina. My voice is gentler than I expect. “I need your help.”
The fridge is full. When I bought this place, my instructions were simple—keep enough food for a small family on short notice. I never thought I’d actually use that clause.
We check the drawers, the refrigerator racks. Raina counts the items out loud, her voice lighter with each one. “Eggs. Milk. Flour. Butter. Syrup. Chocolate. A lemon.”
“We make pancakes,” I announce, as if it’s the only natural conclusion.
“Pancakes?” Raina asks, leaning against the doorway, watching me pull things out.
“Yes.”
“You remember the recipe?”
“I remember everything that feeds a child,” I say quietly.
She smiles, almost. Nadia returns, hair damp, eyes wide. She spots the counter and squeals.
“I can help?” she asks.
“You can stand here,” I say, pulling a sturdy stool to the counter. “And stir.” I keep a hand at her back as she climbs up. Then I tie a dish towel around her and fold her fingers around the whisk, her small hand vanishing inside mine.
“Not too fast,” I say. “You will wear more of it than the pan.”
She takes it seriously, stirring with such concentration her tongue peeks out at the corner of her mouth. Batter splashes onto the counter. Raina’s breath catches when Nadia laughs at the mess, the sound high and free.
I pour the first pancake. Bubbles rise, pop. Nadia leans in to watch.
“When do we flip?” she whispers.
“When the edges look toasty,” I say. I place her hand on the spatula, steadying it with my own. “Ready. One, two, three.”
We turn it. It lands crookedly, batter slopping to one side. Nadia gasps, then giggles, the sound filling the narrow kitchen.
“I missed,” she says.
“You hit the pan,” I reply, approval shining in my voice. “That’s what counts.”
