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“Why?”

I open my mouth, discover I don’t have an answer that isn’t essentially because people don’t, and close it again.

“No particular reason.”

His smile returns. When the toast pops, he jerks half a step away from the counter, and I laugh before I can stop myself. He studies the toaster with immediate distrust.

“Just so you know, it does that every time.”

“Bad machine.”

“It makes toast.”

That gives him pause.

“Maybe good.”

By the time we sit down, Kell has eggs, one piece of buttered toast, and another piece with strawberry jam because he saw the jar, and half a banana because he wanted to know what was inside the peel. I have eggs and toast.

Breakfast stays peaceful for almost thirty seconds. Then Kell bites into the buttered toast and stops chewing. I wait.

“Good.”

“Excellent.”

The next bite is larger. The jam produces an even stronger reaction. He takes one bite, then gives the buttered toast a long, unimpressed look.

“This better.”

“I’m not entering butter and strawberry jam into a competition.”

“Jam wins.”

I look from one piece of toast to the other. “I stand corrected. Apparently the competition is over.”

He looks pleased with the outcome. Eggs are good. Butter is good. Jam is better. Banana gets one long chew before he sets the rest down without comment. I get up to make coffee, and naturally, Kell follows.

“You can stay seated.”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

I fill the machine and start it. He watches the water disappear into the reservoir and perks up at the smell almost as soon as the coffee begins to brew.

“Coffee.”

“You know coffee?”

“You talk about it much.”

That makes sense. He heard enough of my life before waking that coffee was probably inevitable.

Dave drank his black every morning. When the machine finishes, I pour a mug, leave it black, and hand it to Kell.

“Watch out, it’s hot.”

Only after he takes it do I realize what I just did. For twenty-five years, that was the sequence with Dave. Mug, coffee, hand it over.