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I smile.

“Good. You weren’t supposed to like that. Now, wash up and meet me downstairs for breakfast.”

I see her tense, but after a beat she nods.

“Good girl.”

???

Despite being forced to cook so many years, I have come to genuinely enjoy it. The rush of creation, of making something from scattered and broken pieces and ingredients, it appeals to me. The parallels to our current situation aren’t lost on me.

I decide that before anything else, a proper breakfast for both of us is in order. Leaving Mia to her own morning routine, I make my way down the stairs feeling odd at descending rather than ascending to get to the kitchen.

I stand there thinking of what we can make, noting how poor our food stores really are. I hadn’t really thought of it before. I was so pathetically focused on just doing what I was told, but it’s been like that a lot lately and I wonder what's been going on with Jane. It’s then I remember Amelia recently asking me about Jane acting odd. At the time I was in a haze, a wall around my mind with no thoughts other than following orders. Now that I’m, well, me again, small things over the last while begin popping into my mind and I resolve to bring it up again later.

“Do you want coffee?” Mia asks as she putters into the kitchen a moment later, immediately walking toward the small press I know she favors.

I start to shake my head but stop. I’ve only had coffee once before and didn’t like it much then. That was the old me, though. A me who couldn’t even pick his own fucking breakfast.

“Sure,” I say, a small thrill running through me at having a choice.

“Milk, sugar?”

“Whatever you think I’d like,” I reply, and she pauses, turning to look at me. Her eyes meet mine and I know she’s realizing the same thing I just did. For her, coming into this kitchen to make coffee is an everyday thing. Without words, her eyes say it all and I nod lightly. Letting out a breath, she turns back and continues to the coffee while I pull out the last ingredients I need.

“I’m making omelets,” I tell her, not bothering to ask what she wants. My eyes wander over the selection of food in front of me, sparking with decision. A steaming coffee mug is slid in front of me. I turn and give a small nod in thanks before lifting the cup and taking a sip. Creamy but bitter, it washes over me, and I decide I do like coffee.

“So,” she says, sliding into the small kitchen table with her own mug. I continue to stir the eggs and wait, but she doesn’t continue.

“So?” I prompt.

She opens her mouth but before she says anything the door to the front of the house opens. We look at one another with wide eyes. My heart is pounding as my mind races with options, but fear and panic threaten to overwhelm me.

“Why, hello, pets,” Jane says.