Page 106 of Dose

“Two hundred and forty milliliters of milk,” I say. “One hundred and eighty grams of flour.”

Isla takes the measuring jug from me and pours without checking the line.

“That is not two hundred and forty.”

“It’s close enough.”

“Close enough is how reactions fail.”

“Close enough is how breakfast happens before lunch.”

She cracks an egg against the bowl. Part of the shell falls into the batter.

“There is shell in it.”

“There is character in it.”

“Character is not an ingredient.”

“It is now.”

She retrieves the shell with two fingers. I begin to explain emulsification.

She threatens me with the bowl.

I say emulsion anyway.

The batter sloshes over her hand when she lunges. I catch her wrist before the bowl reaches my head, but only because some reflexes remain useful outside captivity.

For one second, we stare at each other.

Then she wipes her coated fingers down the front of my shirt.

I laugh.

The sound surprises both of us. Isla joins me, breathless and bright, flour streaked over one cheek.

The first pancake emerges pale and rubbery. The second tears during the flip and spatters the stove. The third burns at the edges while remaining liquid in the center.

“The heat is wrong,” Isla says.

“The heat is calibrated.”

Smoke rises from the pan.

“It is calibrated for arson.”

I turn off the burner.

“We’re bad at this,” I concede.

“Catastrophically.”

She is still laughing when I brush the flour from her cheek. My thumb lingers. Her smile changes.

She climbs onto the counter and catches the front of my ruined shirt, pulling me between her knees.

“The counter is contaminated,” I tell her.