“Then we move fast.”
Cathy had made chili.
The smell hit Dustin the moment he opened the front door—rich, warm, and aggressively spiced. The kind of food Cathy made when she needed her hands to be doing something. When the world got too big, Cathy got territorial about the kitchen.
“Wash your hands,” Cathy said, not looking up from the stove.
Dustin washed his hands.
Greg stood in the kitchen doorway, rooted to the spot.
“You too,” Cathy told him.
Greg looked down at his hands. “I don’t?—”
“Gregory.”
A pause.
Then Greg went to the sink and washed his hands.
Dustin sat at the table and tried not to think about the fact that he had no plan.
Or the fact that he might not have enough time to enact one even if he did.
Cathy set bowls on the table, shredded cheese on the side, crackers in the middle. “Sit,” she told Greg.
Greg sat.
He looked at the bowl with open curiosity.
“Have you eaten?” Cathy asked.
“Not recently.”
“Good.”
Dustin ate. The chili was warm and spicy and familiar enough to hurt.
Greg took one small, cautious spoonful.
His face transformed in wonder.
Then his brows drew together.
He took another spoonful. Then, very quickly, another.
“What is this?”
His ears had gone pink.
Dustin realized, with a terrible rush of delight, that Greg had probably never eaten spicy food in his life.
“Are you okay?” Dustin asked.
“Something is happening to my throat.”
“That’s the spice.”
