Luis crossed his arms. “I’ll forgive you for saying that. You’re my sister, and Jesus loves those who love the sinners. And you’re in pain, so you’re not speaking from a sound mind.”

“Really? You’re going to accuse me of being mentally unfit?”

“Enough,” Oscar said as he entered the room. “You didn’t call your sister to pester her.”

Welga sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Papa, you need a kitchen,” Luis said.

“I have one. Works perfectly.”

“It doesn’t cook,” Luis countered.

Welga grinned. “I don’t have a problem with that.” She put the knife down and reached for her water. Her hand spasmed. The glass tipped, splashing water on Papa’s stash of microcards, then rolled onto the floor and shattered. “Shit!”

“Or maybe you do,” Luis said, arching his brows.

Oscar tiptoed around the broken glass and dried the microcards first. He always kept some of the hard currency around and refused to use a tip jar, claiming not to trust electronic coin.

“Sorry, I got clumsy,” Welga said, mopping up the counter.

“You’ve been a whole lot of clumsy lately,” Oscar said. Suspicion colored his tone. “Better sit and rest.”

“Maybe because I nearly got blown up? Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll be fine.”

“You carry her marker genes—”

“That was for an early version of flow. I don’t use that stuff, remember? I’m okay. Whatever happened to Mama, it’s not happening to me.”

But something was. Her tremors had stopped during the first day after surgery. The drugs from the medical team helped. Now that she was on a reduced cycle, the random muscle spasms had resumed even though she wasn’t on a comedown from zips. Nithya had sent a message that she might have a lead, but she would have her hands full getting Carma ready for school, and anyway, Welga didn’t want to have the conversation when her brother and father might notice it. Not yet, not until she knew more about what was going on.

The sizzle and aroma of fried corn tortillas followed Welga to the sofa and made her stomach rumble.

“What are you making?” Luis asked.

“Chilaquiles,” their father said. “Breakfast for dinner.”

Welga craned her neck to watch him. “Don’t fry them too long.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar said. “Who taught you how to cook?”

“Okay, Papa, but you’re getting old.”

Oscar grabbed an apple from a basket and tossed it to her. “Eat that and stop talking.”

“I’m not six,” Welga grumbled. “That trick doesn’t work anymore.”