He came on a Saturday.
With things, because Otto always came with things — but the things were different this time. Not the pastry displays or the east-side café sandwiches or the elaborate organised provisions of previous significant occasions. This time: one good container of soup, one loaf of bread, a small plant that had been sitting in their apartment window for four weeks with an instruction card, and a book.
"The soup is Serin's recipe," he said. "She told me the measurements. I wrote them down." He held up the notebook. "I wrote them exactly. She checked my writing."
"She checked your—" Nara started.
"She called me. On the phone. To discuss the soup." He put the container on the counter. "We talked for twenty-two minutes. About the soup." A pause. "Also about other things."
"W
