Page 111 of Hellbent

“No vodka is worth three thousand dollars.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“What else am I gonna spend it on?”

She stared into the pristine white void of his freezer. “I don’t know. Food.”

He came around the island.

“Out of my way,” he said.

* * *

Two eggs dropped in the frying pan with a this-is-your-brain-on-drugs sizzle. Joey sat on a stool, leaning over the island counter, chin resting on her laced fingers. Fascinated.

“You know how to cook?” she asked.

“I’d hardly call this cooking.”

“How’d you learn?”

“Jack.”

“You fit it in between drownproofing and close-quarters combat?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Humor.”

The toaster dinged, and Evan flicked two pieces of sourdough onto a plate. “Butter?”

“Duh.”

He buttered the toast and slid the eggs atop the two slices. “Go snap some parsley off the living wall.”

“Living wall?”

“The vertical garden. There.”

She walked over. “Which one’s the parsley?”

“Upper left quadrant near the edge. No. No. Yes.”

She tore off a piece, brought it over as he twisted pepper from the mill onto the sunny-side-ups.

He halved the sprig, laid a piece on each yolk. Then he set the plate before her, nudging it so it was precisely between knife and fork.

She stared down at the plate, not moving.

“What?” he said.

“Just appreciating it,” she said.

“Eat.”

She looked up at him, cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

Before he could reply, a chime sounded over the wireless speaker system. His head snapped up.