Closing his eyes, Anderson let his abilities loose, delicately feeling out until he was just able to read that his sister was the one quite literally sick at heart. Why? How? Ugh, it was too damn early for complicated problems.
Blowing out a breath, tamping down on his foul mood as best he was able, he left the stairs and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Conversation lapsed as they saw him. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen remained the same: black, red, and white with a theme of 'too many goddamn apples'.
"Good morning," his mother said brightly, though it was underscored by wariness. "There's cinnamon rolls. I wasn't sure what your young man liked, though, so I made biscuits and gravy as well."
"He'll love that, thank you," Anderson said. "Is there coffee?"
"Of course."
