She glowers at him--eyes narrowed and everything, an eight-grader with a bad attitude--but there's no real heat. Sam figures it's twenty percent exhaustion, eighty percent the promise of food. Still, when she boosts herself up on the counter, watching him measure out the flour ("Aren't you going to use a mix?" and ten, fifteen seconds where they stare at each other in mutual disbelief), she adds, "You keeping doing my bit and I'm going to have to do yours. Skip town. Leave no forwarding address."

"Funny." He's handed her a whisk and the wet ingredients, but so far she isn't doing much. He gives her knee a squeeze, skinny under her jeans. "McNally. Stir."

"I'm stirring." She pokes morosely at the egg yokes; brightens. "Hey, you have any chocolate chips?"

Twelve years old, Sam swears. "It's after midnight."

"What?" She laughs. "What's next? Can't expose me to bright lights or get me wet either?" At his blank stare, she rolls her eyes. "Gremlins, Sam, seriously. It's like you were raised in a box."

More like a decade and a bit before her, but fine. "I know the important things." And then, because it's late and he can: "Pretty sure I can get you wet. Just saying."