Chapter 10 Emma
The banging came again, insistent and impossible to ignore. "Emma?"
Cole's voice. Rough, familiar, and entirely unexpected at dawn on my mandated rest day.
I grabbed my crutches and hobbled to the door, my mind still fuzzy with sleep and the lingering fog of pain medication.
I hadn't brushed my hair. I was wearing faded flannel pajamas dotted with cartoon owls.
It was a comfortable relic from my old life that I'd never bothered to replace.
This was absolutely not how I'd imagined our next meeting.
I opened the door, squinting against the pale morning light.
Cole and Sarah stood on my porch, bathed in the cool gray-gold glow of early morning.
Cole was laden with grocery bags, at least four of them hanging from his large hands, his arms straining slightly with the weight.
Sarah held a single, smaller bag carefully in both arms, her face arranged into an expression of solemn importance.
For a moment, we all just stared at each other. Cole's gaze swept over me, taking in the crutches, the owl pajamas, and my thoroughly sleep-tousled hair. A faint flush crept up his neck.
"What are you doing here?" I finally managed, my voice thick with sleep and confusion.
"We're making you breakfast," Sarah announced, beaming with obvious pride. "Uncle C said we're going to feed you properly."
Cole's face was set in that familiar stubborn expression I was beginning to recognize. He gently but firmly nudged me backward with his elbow. "Sit. Rest your ankle. We've got this completely under control."
"You really don't have to—"
"Yes, we do." He cut me off, already moving past me into the cabin with determined purpose. "Yesterday, I got you food that you couldn't eat. That's not happening again."
I let myself be steered toward the couch, too stunned by the early hour and the sheer unexpectedness of the situation to mount any real resistance. "But it's seven-thirty in the morning. On a Saturday."
"Breakfast is a morning meal," Cole said, as if this explained everything perfectly. "Seemed like the appropriate time to make it."
"Uncle C woke me up at six," Sarah added helpfully, climbing onto one of my kitchen chairs to survey the counter. "He said we had a mission."
"A mission," I repeated faintly, sinking onto the couch cushions.
"A very important mission." Sarah nodded with exaggerated solemnity. "Operation Feed Ms. Reed. That's what he called it."
"I didn't call it that," Cole muttered, unloading grocery bags onto my counter.
"You did. In the truck."
"The truck conversation was classified."
"What does classified mean?"
"It means I'm not admitting to anything."
I sat on the couch, my crutches propped beside me, and watched with growing amazement as they systematically took over my small kitchen.
Cole pulled out his phone and propped it carefully against my tea kettle, studying the screen with the intense concentration of a man deciphering ancient tactical maps or complex military strategy.
"Okay, Sarah. First thing we need is a bowl. Big one."
Sarah scrambled down from the chair, retrieved my largest mixing bowl from the cabinet she'd apparently already memorized the location of from how often they’d been coming, and placed it on the counter with a decisive thunk.
"Flour. Two cups." He held up a bag of all-purpose flour, squinting between his phone screen and the measuring cup with deep suspicion. He poured with exaggerated care. A small cloud of white erupted into the air anyway, dusting his flannel sleeve.
Sarah giggled delightedly. "You made it snow, Uncle C!"
"That's... intentional. Flour distribution technique."
"Is that what the video says?"
"The video didn't specifically address flour clouds, no."
I bit my lip firmly to keep from laughing out loud. He was so serious about this entire endeavor. So utterly determined to get it right.
"Now the baking powder," Cole muttered, reading intently from his phone. "Two teaspoons. Not tablespoons. Apparently, that distinction matters significantly."
"What's the difference?"
"Size. Tablespoons are bigger. Three times bigger, according to my research."
"Why don't they just say big spoon and little spoon? That would be way easier."
"That's an excellent question I genuinely don't have a satisfying answer to."
I watched him measure each ingredient with precision, his large, weathered hands handling the small measuring spoons with almost comical care. He added salt, sugar, and whisked the dry ingredients together with intensity.
"Now the wet ingredients," he announced like a commander issuing orders. "Separate bowl. Sarah, you're on egg duty."
Sarah accepted an egg from the carton with the reverence of someone handling live explosives. "On the flat part of the counter, right? Not the edge of the bowl?"
"That's what the video showed, yes."
She tapped the egg gingerly against the countertop. Nothing happened. She tapped again, slightly harder. Still nothing. She tapped with more force. The egg collapsed with a soggy crunch, shell fragments and golden yolk cascading messily over her small fingers and onto my counter.
"Oops," she whispered, her brown eyes going wide with horror. "I broke it wrong."
Cole didn't scold. Didn't sigh with frustration. He simply grabbed a paper towel from the roll. "First pancake's always a tester. Same principle applies to eggs, apparently."
"I'm really sorry, Uncle C."
"Don't be sorry. Learning requires mistakes. Try again with a new one. You've absolutely got this."
The second egg was a complete triumph. A perfect confident crack, the yolk sliding whole and unbroken into the bowl. Sarah's face lit up like sunrise breaking over the mountains.
"I did it! Look, Uncle C, I did it!"
"You did it perfectly. Natural egg-cracker. Professional level."
"I want to do another one."
"Let's not push our luck too far. One documented success is enough for now."
I couldn't help myself any longer. "The key is confidence," I called out from my couch position. "Hesitation is what causes the shell to crumble like that."
Cole shot me a look over his shoulder. "You're supposed to be resting that ankle."
"I'm resting and supervising simultaneously. Efficient multitasking."
"Supervisors who don't rest don't get pancakes."
"Supervisors who offer valuable guidance get extra pancakes. That's the rule."
Sarah giggled at our exchange. Cole's mouth twitched, fighting against a smile he clearly didn't want to show.
He added milk and melted butter to the eggs, whisking the wet ingredients with concentration. A splatter of batter escaped the bowl and hit the cupboard door. He wiped it away without comment and kept whisking determinedly.
"In my research," he said, his tone deadly serious, "it says we need to let the batter rest for five minutes after mixing the wet and dry ingredients together. For gluten development."
He said "gluten development" like he was describing a complex military extraction protocol or wilderness survival technique. I was not going to laugh. I was absolutely, positively not going to laugh at this man who had stayed up watching cooking videos to learn how to make a proper meal.
"Research?" I managed, my voice coming out slightly strangled with suppressed amusement.
He glanced over at me, caught my expression, and his tense shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
A sheepish, almost boyish smile touched his lips.
"I stayed up pretty late watching cooking videos online.
Turns out breakfast isn't actually that complicated to make.
I've just been lazy about it. Relying on cereal and instant stuff when Sarah deserved much better than that. "
"Uncle C made me cereal this morning before we came," Sarah stage-whispered, sidling over toward the couch conspiratorially. "But he said we're learning together so we can make real food after today."
The "we" in that sentence did something dangerous and wonderful to my heart simultaneously. It wasn't just him trying to impress me with newfound cooking skills. It was him including Sarah in this, building something new with her. Teaching her while learning himself.
"Five minutes is officially up," Cole announced, checking his phone timer. "Time for the actual cooking part. This is where it gets serious."
He heated my skillet on the stove, testing the temperature with a flick of water the way I'd seen professional chefs do on cooking shows. The water droplets sizzled and danced across the hot surface.
"That means it's ready for batter," he said, mostly to himself. "I think. Probably."
He ladled batter carefully onto the hot surface. It spread into a vaguely circular shape that was more oval than round.
"Uncle C, the pancake is bubbling on top."
"That means it's ready to flip. Probably ready. The video mentioned bubbles."
"You don't sound sure about that."
"The video wasn't entirely clear on the specific bubble situation and timing."
"Bubbles definitely mean flip," I called out helpfully from my supervisory position.
"Thank you for that input, supervisor." He slid the spatula under the pancake and flipped it with significantly more force than necessary. It landed half-folded on itself in the pan.
"That one's funky," Sarah observed diplomatically, peering at the misshapen result.
"Funky is a valid style choice in pancake artistry."
The first pancake was, objectively speaking, a complete disaster. It got stuck to the pan, was torn roughly in half during extraction, and had its edges thoroughly blackened. Cole frowned at it with obvious disappointment, then scraped it into my compost bin with dignified acceptance of failure.
"A temperature adjustment is required," he muttered analytically.
The next pancakes were notably better. Lopsided, a little too brown on one side, but recognizably pancakes. He stacked them on a plate with growing confidence and visible pride.