It bubbles like a phenomenon, in a liquefaction of green-black cream. But is just a humble meal. A fixer-upper. Gathered, shelled, hammered, sliced. And simmered. Fix you up.
Someone was in the kitchen again. Cupboard doors opened and closed. Footsteps, not loud but not furtive either. Plates rattled in the sink and a coffee maker gurgled.
Finn had stepped in the pool because the pavement was burning his bare feet, his forgotten flip flops sitting in the bucket by the door at home, waiting for him,…