Page 76 of Run Omega Run
Dante started with pancakes, mixing batter that would yield dozens. Real butter went into the mix, and fresh eggs from the refrigerator. The children gathered around the massive island like moths drawn to a flame, their faces bright with anticipation that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the promise of plenty.
"Can we really eat as much as we want?" Dylan asked me, his voice as hopeful as ever. His thin frame still showed the effects of recent illness and long-term scarcity.
"As much as you want," I confirmed, feeling my lips curling at the corners as I watched his face transform with disbelief and joy.
Tomas surprised everyone by speaking without being directly addressed, his voice soft but clear as he asked, "Can I help?"
I handed him a bowl and wooden spoon for mixing a fruit salad, work that would keep his hands busy while allowing him to remain close to the protective warmth of group activity. "Strawberries and raspberries," I told him. "Make sure they're clean and pretty for everyone."
Denson claimed responsibility for the bacon, under Dante's tuition, of course. The precise way he arranged strips in the pan spoke of attention to detail that would serve our expanded family well. Loubie Lou appointed herself official taster, sampling everything that came within reach with the dedicated enthusiasm that only a three-year-old could bring to quality control.
But it was discovering the waffle maker that sent my excitement into overdrive, hands shaking with anticipation as I realized I could create something special, a breakfast that existed only in my memories of special occasions. Belgian-style waffles! Thick and golden with deep squares perfect for holding syrup and fruit, the indulgent morning meal that makes ordinary days feel like celebrations.
"Oh my," I breathed, running my fingers over the appliance like it might disappear if I didn't handle it carefully enough. "This is going to change everything."
The first waffle that emerged was perfect. It was golden brown and crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, smelling like comfort and possibility in equal measure. I placed it on the warming plate and started the next one.
Dylan appeared at my elbow with a bowl of fresh blueberries that looked like they'd been selected by someone who understood that presentation mattered as much as nutrition. "For the waffles?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer and was simply savoring the luxury of having choices.
"Perfect," I said, feeling butterflies fluttering in my stomach alongside pride at how naturally these children had adapted. "And there's whipped cream in the refrigerator if anyone wants to really go overboard."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs announced the return of our rescued girls, led by Susie, whose wild red hair had been cleaned and braided into something that looked stylish rather than chaotic. She moved with more confidence than I'd seen since before the fire, her shoulders straight, and her expression alert rather than haunted.
The six girls who descended the staircase bore little resemblance to the broken shadows who'd arrived hours earlier. Hair that had been matted with dirt and worse now fell in cleanlines around faces that showed their true youth, and clothes that fit had restored some essential dignity that captivity had stripped away.
But it was more than surface changes that marked their improvement. They moved with less of the tension that had characterized their earlier behavior, shoulders no longer hunched in permanent defensive postures.
The girl with matted dark hair, who'd introduced herself quietly as Maya, looked almost pretty now that layers of grime no longer obscured her delicate features. The blonde, who'd given her name as Sara, had regained some of her confidence. Her personality suggested she'd once been popular among her peers; before the earthquake and opportunistic predators had stolen her entire world.
"Something smells incredible down here," Susie announced, surveying the controlled chaos of breakfast preparation with obvious approval. "And I mean incredible in ways that make oatmeal seem like a cruel and unusual punishment."
Her joke drew genuine laughter from several of the children, the sound bright, and healing in ways that no amount of medical care could achieve.
The rescued girls clustered together near the entrance to the kitchen, still uncertain about their place here. Their eyes tracked every movement, recorded every exit, and remained ready for the betrayal they'd been conditioned to expect.
"Come in," I said gently, not moving toward them but opening my posture to show invitation without pressure. "There's more food being made than any reasonable group of people could consume. We need help eating it all."
Susie moved among them with characteristic boldness, claiming plates and silverware for distribution. "Trust me," she told them with the authority of someone who'd tested the watersand found them safe, "Dante's cooking is worth whatever leap of faith it takes to believe this is real."
Slowly, they entered the kitchen, drawn by scents that promised nourishment and the sight of children their own age moving freely without fear or hesitation. The girl who'd accepted Tomas's blanket moved first, followed by the others in gradually increasing confidence.
We continued cooking with steady focus. Dante added muffins to the oven and prepared eggs Benedict, and I continued perfecting my waffles, which Loubie Lou tasted and approved of.
“How are you doing?” Dante asked me, as I felt his body cuddle up to the back of me, helping me stir waffle batter.
I sighed, swallowing hard. “It’s going to take a while, but I’m okay right now.”
He let go of the spoon and spun me around gently, so I curled up in his arms, my head resting on his chest. “I’m always here for you. For anything you need.”
I nodded and thanked him. He kissed the top of my head and pulled back. “Come on then, these waffles will not cook themselves.” I laughed, swatting him on the shoulder.
After everyone had eaten until their tummies were ready to explode, the lost girls had eased into our family. Their once withdrawn faces now looked bright and held genuine smiles. I looked around the kitchen at everyone. We were once all broken, cast aside or abused, but now, we’d come together to create a great big dysfunctional family, and I loved every part of it.
Cole took time in checking everyone over. It was nothing invasive, just a basic assessment to make sure they were healing properly and didn't need immediate medical intervention.
Maya volunteered first for her check-up. Cole’s movements were deliberately slow, his hands remaining in her line of sight throughout the examination. When he checked her pupils for responsiveness, he narrated every action: "Equal and reactive,which is good news. No signs of serious head injury." His voice carried the same calm professionalism he'd shown when treating Dylan's cold, medical expertise stripped of any authority that might feel threatening to someone whose autonomy had been violated.
The rope burns on her wrists drew his particular attention, though he approached them with the same careful consideration. "These will heal," he said, gently cleaning the abraded skin with an antiseptic. "No signs of infection, which means your body is doing exactly what it should be doing to repair itself."
