He stared at the spoon.
“I’ve done this.”
“You said it was your grandmother’s recipe.”
“No.”
His breathing quickened.
“This. Here.”
The kitchen grew very still.
Noah looked around as if the walls had shifted.
“Not this kitchen.”
I waited.
He closed his eye.
“The cabinets were orange.”
My heart began to pound.
“Copper,” I said carefully. “They were painted copper.”
“There was no room.”
“No.”
“You sat on the windowsill.”
I could see it.
My back against the glass.
Knees nearly touching the counter.
Noah moving through the tiny kitchen, nervous enough to knock over a glass.
“Yes.”
His face tightened with effort.
“Rain.”
“It was raining.”
“You’d been at the yard all day.”
“Yes.”
“Your hands were cut.”
I looked down at my knuckles.
That night, I had sliced one palm on a rusted conduit clamp.
