Ben set his keys down in the tray by the door.
“School,” he took off his hat and placed it on the wall hook.
“Fine,” I replied.
He crossed the kitchen without looking at me, then washed and dried his hands. Only then did he turn.
“Scenario,” he said.
My shoulders stayed loose. My pulse didn’t even change.
“You’re driving home,” he continued, voice flat. “Two-lane road. No cell service. You see headlights coming fast behind you. Too fast.”
“Accelerate to create distance,” I said immediately. “If they match speed, take the next unmarked turn. Don’t go home.”
Ben nodded once. “You’re at school. The fire alarm goes off during fourth period. Chaos ensues.”
“Leave the building,” I kept chopping. “But not with the crowd. Crowds bottleneck exits.”
“Good. Then what?”
“Move perpendicular to the flow. Assess. Listen. The smell of smoke will let me know whether it’s a drill.”
He stepped closer, eyes sharp. “You hear shouting.”
“Identify exits with hard cover,” I cleared my throat. “Concrete. Brick. Avoid glass.”
“What if a teacher tells you to stay put?” Ben tilted his head.
“I stay true to my course,” my tone stayed level. “Authority doesn’t mean knowledge.”
“Methods?”
“I try reason first,” I said. “Then physical if needed.”
Ben studied my face as if he were looking for cracks.
“Food shortage,” he said abruptly. “One week in. Stores are empty. You have supplies. Our neighbors ask for help.”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Assess value,” I intoned. “Skills, tools, numbers. Charity creates dependency.”
“And if they have kids?”
“Kids don’t change the math,” I answered immediately. But if I was honest, at least with myself, that was the one scenario I knew I’d fail.
Silence filled the kitchen.
Then Ben nodded.
“Good,” he ate a slice of bell pepper I’d cut up.
I grabbed a skillet from the cabinet.
Supper was simple.
Stir fry with fresh vegetables from our garden. Ben checked the stove while I chopped, his eyes flicking to the prep room door as if he could see through it.
