Chapter 4: Pancakes

Nobody said a word about the engine bay.

At nine on Saturday morning Normand put a plate of pancakes in front of me, seven of them, with a pitcher of his own maple syrup beside it.

"Eat," he said.

I sat at the long table in his flannel shirt with my hair still wild from the night, and four men sat down around me.

Gilles took the head of the table.

He looked at me directly, and he did not look away.

Tibo had gone red to the tips of his ears.

He studied his plate and did not eat.

Emile poured me coffee and passed it over without a word, and his fingers brushed mine on the mug.

Ansel was the one who finally spoke.

"Ground rules," he said.

His voice came out slow and dry.

"We're not going to make this strange.

"Nobody keeps score, and nobody keeps you.

"You pick."

"Whoever you want," Emile said. "Whenever."

"Or nobody," said Gilles. "That's allowed too."

"I know," I said.

I cut a pancake and ate it, because I was hungry and because I could.

"I'm picking," I said.

Tibo made a small choking noise into his coffee.

Normand reached for the syrup on the high shelf above the stove.

It was too high for me to reach, so he picked me up under the arms and set me on the counter without thinking about it.

His hands closed all the way around my waist.

They stayed there one beat longer than they needed to.

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