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“That’s one.”

He opens the refrigerator and stares inside.

I fold my arms. “Struggling, Ken?”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re looking at ingredients hoping one of them volunteers as tribute.”

“Chicken.”

“Chicken what?”

He looks over the refrigerator door. “Just…chicken.”

I laugh. “That’s not a dish.”

“Sure it is.”

“You can’t just cook a chicken and call it chicken.”

“Pretty sure you can.”

I’m still laughing when he pulls the cheese from the refrigerator. And somewhere between him arguing about chicken and reaching past me for the bread, something warm settles low in my belly.

His joke shouldn’t stick with me.

A little woman living under my roof.

It’s ridiculous. Caveman-ish. Deliberately designed to annoy me. So why did the word living sound so nice?

I push the thought away before it can turn into something bigger and focus on the delicious smell of bread sizzling in butter.

“Careful, you’re going to burn it.”

“Get out of my kitchen, Baby Becks.” He waves the spatula at me.

“Yes, Chef.”

Boundaries.

Mom calls Thursday while I’m walking home from the train.

Wind pushes between the buildings hard enough to sting my cheeks, carrying the smell of rain and car exhaust. I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder while trying to keep my hair out of my mouth.

“You sound out of breath,” she says.

Gee thanks.

“I’m walking.”

“At night?”

“It’s six-thirty, Mom.”

“It’s dark.”

“It is October.”