Breaking Bread.
“We like cooking,” I said, smiling as I reached for the neatly organized ingredients on the counter.
Beside me, Joan’s face twisted into a mix of mild disagreement and forced enthusiasm, her mouth opening slightly as if she was about to argue. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, I do. Joan isn’t exactly keen on making pack meals,” I teased lightly, “but she wants to help just as much as I do.”
Joan huffed, crossing her arms. “We don’t want to get in the way,” she insisted, her tone firm but kind. “But we’re here, and if we’re staying, we’ll help. Just point us in the right direction, or we’ll find something to do ourselves.”
Hilary, standing nearby with her arms full of bowls and utensils, looked uncertain. “Do either of you know how to make garlic bread?” she asked,
