I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to

measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is

no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the

whole dish.

Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,”

he reminds me, shooting me a wink from across the table.

I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone

knows that breathing involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders

stiff, your face red.”

Enter title…

chuckle. “Alright, fine. You’ve

a little while longer, zesting

I expected, but I’m not

reach for the nutmeg—only to

scent of cumin.

looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s not

the correct spice, but time

the labels got messed up.” I

jar, labeled ‘cinnamon’ this

my panic rising. “Paprika in

here?”

move, reaching into

eventually pulls out another jar labeled

is bound to be the right one.

at the clock makes my heart leap into

hunting for spices than I

is on me, documenting my struggle.

mixture and

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