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“They are artisan pancakes.”

“They are irregular.”

“They are emotionally honest.”

“That is not a culinary category.”

“It is now.”

I measure two pinches of redroot, hesitate, and add a third. Some old instinct approves before I can decide whether instinct has authority. The spice darkens the boiling water at once, releasing smoke-sharp bitterness that fills the small kitchen and wraps around my lungs like memory made warm.

Anita comes closer, sniffing cautiously. “That smells like a campfire got into a knife fight with a spice cabinet.”

“Accurate.”

“Is it supposed to make my eyes water?”

“For humans, perhaps.”

“Lovely. A breakfast beverage and tear gas.”

I pour the tea through a mesh filter into two cups, then add a spoon of thick amber sweetener to hers. She watches closely.

“How did you know I’d need sweetener?”

“You describe black coffee as ‘a moral test’ and fail it every time.”

“I pass it with cream.”

“That is not passing.”

“That is strategic adaptation.”

I hand her the cup.

She takes it with both hands, inhales, and makes a face that suggests curiosity losing an argument with survival. “If I die, tell Sira my last words were academically significant.”

“Drink slowly.”

“Now you tell me.”

She takes a tiny sip.

Her eyes widen. Her nose wrinkles. She swallows with the grim determination of a soldier taking bad news.

“Well?” I ask.

“It tastes like a tree committed a felony.”

I laugh.

The sound surprises both of us.

Not because I have not laughed before. I have laughed more in Anita’s presence than in many years prior, usually against my better judgment. This laugh is different. It rises easily, without needing terror, exhaustion, or the relief of not dying as fuel. It fills the kitchen and returns to me warmer than it left.

Anita stares at me over the cup.

“What?” I ask.