Bree
I walked into the giant kitchen—a massive, open space designed to feed dozens of people, buzzing with the faint echoes of past meals and future messes. It was the same kitchen that would host the cooking classes, the place where we'd all be expected to learn some basic survival skills that went beyond opening ramen packets or heating up frozen meals.
I’d already survived the fractions course that morning, which honestly hadn’t been as bad as I expected. We’d broken them down, multiplied, divided—and surprisingly, I’d kept up. The guy leading it, Landon, had a knack for explaining things simply. He’d even shown me a trick that made everything easier, faster than the method I’d been taught before. It left me feeling like maybe—just maybe—my brain hadn’t turned to mush post-high school
