Page 78 of Shadowing You

“I found some coal…briquettes or whatever, and got them lit.” He nodded at a stove. “It’s doing the work. I was worried about smoke, but I went outside and looked, and I can’t see it.”

“Honeycomb coal smoke is nearly invisible.” She settled at the table. “The smell will carry, though.”

“It’s awful. The air tastes like metal.”

“Does it?” She considered that and realized he wasn’t wrong. “It feels normal to me, but this is how my parents heat their house.”

Something crossed his features, there and gone before she could name it.

He turned to plug in a hotplate. “I got the electricity working, obviously. When I flipped the switch, the light came on.” He settled a tin pot onto the hot plate. “I thought for sure it would wake you, but you didn’t even twitch.”

“I was tired.”

He aimed a smile over his shoulder. “I noticed.”

“I should make breakfast.” She tried to summon the energy to stand again.

“I’ll do it. And in America, we call the noon meal ‘lunch.’”

“Noon? Surely it’s not.”

He glanced at his watch. “Ten till.”

How many hours had she slept? She had no idea what time they’d arrived the night before.

She settled back on the chair and watched him open a can with a small key, the smell hitting her before she saw the contents—oily and briny, the dace and salted black beans she had not eaten since she was a child, and for good reason.

He poured the fish and beans into a waiting pot. “Smells great.”

“That was sarcasm, yes?”

“I’m not complaining.” He produced a covered pot from the corner. “I made rice while you were sleeping. I wanted it to be ready when you woke up.”

“That was kind.” The words ended on a yawn. She rested her head in her hand and watched as he stirred, then spooned it over the rice and slid a bowl across the table to her before sitting down with his own. She watched him attempt a bite.

He was getting better at chopsticks, but his pinched expression told her this wasn’t a meal he would eat again if he could avoid it.

“It’s not the best China has to offer,” she said.

“It’s great.” He shrugged. “Healthy, anyway. And I’m hungry.”

She ate her own. This had never been her favorite, but if Ethan could do it, she could too. If she didn’t, he would worry, and the last thing she wanted was to cause him more worry.

“You took good care of me last night, Dr. America.”

He looked up, grinning. “I forgot you used to call me that.”

“Thank you.”

“I was happy to do it.” He took another bite and seemed to force himself to swallow.

“What would you eat right now if you could have anything?”

“Steak.” His answer came quickly. “Ribeye, medium rare, with a baked potato the size of my forearm covered in butter, sour cream, sharp cheddar, and bacon.” He seemed to be thinking very hard, then added, “And a beer.”

“I didn’t know you drank alcohol.”

“A single beer never hurt anybody. How about you? What food have you been dreaming of?”