“T-that’s not what I mean. I’m not talking about that home. Just ‘home.’ A good bread tastes like home.”

And that was it. The answer did not lie in any combination of someone else’s secret recipes or ingredients—it was in the tastes not just of home, but of excitement, memory, love, belonging … What people truly hungered for.

If their donuts could evoke those feelings, then customers were sure to return.

With Edwin’s help, Floresta had quietly and gradually created her first set of recipes. Eventually, Floresta would create ready-to-use mixes. But for now, she and Edwin combined the ingredients one at a time: water and yeast, then flour, then the oils, and other such things that premade mixes had.

Floresta monitored the warmth of the dough. As the dough began to rise, the kitchen began to fill with the intoxicating smell of yeast. The donuts had not even been fried yet, but already, Floresta’s mouth began to water, and her mind began to think of a place that had long disappeared. It had been so sweet.

She waited for Edwin’s signal before the dough was rolled, then cut, then proofed. And then she went to find the captain.

Edwin was cooling the first batch just as Aunty Floresta led the captain into the kitchen. Lan paused. The smell was different. She couldn’t pinpoint how, but it was making her hungry.

“Lanny, try this.”

Aunty Floresta motioned to Edwin, who gave her a donut.

The Alaska Donut—Starrgate’s signature.

“We didn’t glaze them yet, but you can try one now,” Edwin said.

Lan took a bite. And another.

Lan had assumed the appeal of the donuts was to induce a need in her customers. And that the fall in sales meant their physiology was no longer being affected, either due to an error in the replicators or some defect in their physiology.

And another.

But this was no defect. And she had been wrong.

This donut’s appeal was not physiological. It was deeper. She became filled with a warm, loving feeling. It was gentle. She thought of her mother, long ago, in her Star Patrol uniform.

Lan took another bite.

She didn’t know how, but this Alaska Donut tasted like home.

It was 1 A.M. Tremon Philippe sat at his table, having an exquisitely steamed fish. The flesh was sweet and almost creamy, the ginger and scallions were a fragrant delight.

Who would have thought that a place like this could serve food like this? He gave a quiet apology for his remarks about dumplings and ducks. But of course it made sense, did it not? Exquisite French pastries served by Vietnamese, Cambodian donut shops, Hong Kong cafés everywhere. Here, as in Hell, so much had been shaped by politics and war, ambition and dreams of escape.

In fact, humans were more ruthless in all of these than demons. And more. Not that they knew it, of course.