1. Verify the diagnosis. 2. Demand the itemized bill. 3. Refuse the easy defeat. 4. Sit in the chair. 5. Don’t let him forget he is still Archie, even when he is frightened.
Archie stared at the fifth line.
The ink seemed to vibrate against the white cardstock. A single, heavy tear dropped from his eyelashes, striking the wood of the cutting board with a soft tap.
Skyla reached out. Her fingers—warm, smelling of rosemary and onions—gently slid the card back toward herself. She tucked it into the front pocket of her apron.
“I almost threw that one in the fire with the others,” she said softly, her eyes searching his.
Archie looked up, his vision blurred with tears. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his wrist, her touch firm, forgiving, but unyielding in its truth, “even when you were lying, that was the man I was trying to save. Just make sure he stays in the room from now on.”
“I’m here,” Archie said, his voice breaking as he covered her hand with his own. “I’m right here.”
From the stove behind them, a sharp, hissing sizzle suddenly erupted. A plume of white steam rose toward the ceiling, accompanied by the acrid, unmistakable scent of scorched barley.
Skyla spun around, her eyes widening. “Archie! The broth! You let the bottom catch!”
“I’m on it!” he yelled, grabbing a wooden spatula from the drawer.
She stepped aside with a burst of bright, uninhibited laughter that filled every corner of the warm kitchen, making room for him at the flame.
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