pot from the cabinet and placed it carefully on the stove, using achair as a stepping stool.He froze. It was his pot, his mother’s pot from before. She alwaysused to make him soup from that pot during storms. He crept upclose behind Lucy to get a better look.“Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice sharp.Lucy jumped. When she looked back at him, her eyes were widewith fear.“Sorry,” he said, placing two light fingers on her shoulder. His skinbristled at the touch, not unpleasantly. She was so soft, so malleable.It had been a while since he had felt something like that.“It’s funny,” he reached over her to brush the handle of the potwith his fingers. “My mom always used to make me soup duringstorms. She had a red pot exactly like that one. And a knife with ared rubber handle.”Lucy blinked, clearly indifferent.“You can melt the butter,” she said after a pause, hopping downfrom her chair. “I’ll chop up the vegetables.”“Okay. Where’s the butter?”She pointed over at the counter, where a tin of butter sat nestledin the corner. Most likely it was melted. As far as he could tell, therewasn’t a place to keep anything cold in this house. None at all.32Something was wrong. As he grabbed the tin and unscrewed thelid to look inside, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the metallic surface. Slowly, his lower lip turned frighteningly white. In the
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