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I still don’t understand how it’s possible. I only know what I saw and what I felt when I saw him. And if it is him… If there’s even a chance that the man who saved our lives on that stupid, sweaty bus was Hans, then I can’t let him get in trouble for it.
My coworkers were all pretty rattled, so I don’t know if any of them even noticed his long hair or his eye color, but my contradicting eyewitness should confuse matters enough that no one will come looking for my neighbor.
Mom exhales. “I know. I’m just worried about you being alone in that house.”
“I’ll be fine.” I roll my lips, then add, “If I need anything, Hans is just across the street.”
She makes a sound of agreement. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you go.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Good night, Cassie. I love you.”
My dad shouts his love through the phone.
“Love you both.”
Ending the call, I set my phone back on the counter.
I often wonder if having siblings would’ve made my parents less involved in my life, but I don’t think it would’ve mattered. They are who they are. And, annoying or not, it’s nice having people who care.
My eyes wander back to the front windows.
Hans doesn’t have that.
There’s obviously a lot I still don’t know about his past, most of it, really, but I know his parents are gone. I know his sister is gone. That she was murdered.
I bite my lip.
If it really was him in Mexico, if Hans really is the man who so swiftly and violently saved us, is that because of his past?
My nose twitches as an unpleasant scent hits it.
“Oh shit!” I spin around and snatch the hot mitts off the counter before yanking open the oven door.
A mixture of steam and smoke billows out, and I use the mitts to fan it away.
“Damn it.” Lifting out the tray, I can see the darkened edges around the too-flat cookies.
“No!” I whine, knowing I’ve burned them.
After shutting the oven door, I turn it off and set the tray on top of the stove.
A few of the chunks of sweet corn that are sticking out of the cookies caught fire. There are no flames now, just smoke trailing from the burnt little chunks.
I look at the Post-it note I already filled out for Hans—the words mocking me. Charred sweet corn cookies indeed. The charring was supposed to only be from when I flash seared the fresh sweet corn. A little note of umami flavor to the sugar sweetness. Not charred to within an inch of its life.
My eyes start to sting, and I realize how hazy it is in the kitchen.
I groan. The last thing I need is my smoke detector going off.
I reach over the sink and open the window behind it to let in some fresh air.
Even though night has fallen, it’s still warm outside. But the little breeze is immediate, and the haze starts to lessen.
I still stand here, waving the oven mitts around, trying to bring in more fresh air.
It’s dark out, and with the lights on inside, I can’t see through the window into the backyard, but I’m thankful my house backs up to the woods. The number of times I’ve had to wave smoke out of my house is a little embarrassing, and I’m glad no one can see me.
