THE NEXT MORNING NELLY woke up to the scent of fried jacks and crispy luncheon meat. Her stomach grumbled and she sat up, wiping the grime from her eyes. What was that delightful smell?
She walked to the kitchen and found Aunt Shayla—hair bound at the top of her head by a scarf, eyes bright and cheerful, and hands busy with the pots on the stove.
“Oh?” Aunt Shayla spun and seemed surprised to find Nelly there. “Did you wake up?”
“What’s this?”
“I thought I’d make you breakfast. You do this for me all the time.” She set a glass down on the table and pointed to the chair with her spatula. “Sit.”
Nelly obeyed and inhaled the delicious scents floating in the air. “You didn’t have to cook.”
“I wanted to.” Shayla slid a plate in front of her and clasped her hands together. She bowed her
