Ariel Beckham.
I woke up early to make breakfast for Ramirez. Pancakes. How hard could they be? This is the third bowl of batter I’m mixing because every pancake I’ve made so far has ended up burnt to a crisp. Seriously, it’s like they have a personal vendetta against me. Either there’s something wrong with the stove, or I’m doing something terribly wrong.
The fire alarm goes off—again. I cough, waving my hands frantically to clear the smoke and turning it off before it wakes the whole house. The trash can is a graveyard of failed pancakes, blackened and lifeless. The only one that isn’t completely charred is this sad, dark-brown blob. I don’t think pancakes are supposed to look like this.
“Mrs. Gonzales?” I hear, and my face snaps up to see the older woman standing in the doorway. Mann
