Chapter 3Sunday mornings at the Peters’ residence usually meant one thing: waffles. It had been Wesley’s favorite day of the week from the time he was barely five. Usually, the waffles were plain, but made from scratch and always perfect. On special weekends, Betty would add things like cinnamon or blueberries or chocolate chips. If she felt up to it, Betty would sometimes even make a sort of hot strawberry slurry for Belgian waffles, topped with whipped cream and Mrs. Buttersworth syrup. It was so ingrained in Wes’s mind that the smell of a waffle maker had the ability to pull him back into happy memories of childhood faster than anything else.
It’d been three months since he had had waffles for breakfast.
Rolling out of bed, Wes trudged into the kitchen. Betty was already up, and pouri
