Nadia. Pale pink cotton shorts with fraying, rolled-up hems, short enough to leave a good ninety percent of her legs bare. A white ribbed tank top under a thin gray zip-up hoodie made from T-shirt material; the hoodie is unzipped, the zipper pull dangling at her hip, the edges pulled closed far enough to provide a covering over the fact that she’s not wearing a bra.

She’s holding her big stockpot in both hands, with the glass lid with the black handle covering it. “I made oatmeal.”

I blink. Stammer. “Um, I…yeah. Oatmeal.” I step backward. “Come in. I’ll…shirt. Coffee. Just hold on.”

She takes one step inward, over the threshold. No further.

I fumble into a shirt, trying to fill the electric kettle at the same time. Grind beans. Pretend her presence isn’t flustering me.

The book is on my bed, visible from the front door at certain angles.

Fortunately, her eyes are on the table, which is covered in shavings and wood peelings and finished carvings, and my half-finished scale model of these two cabins and the curve of the lake they’re on, with the stand of pines behind them—it’s all made from one piece of wood, a large section of pine I found sliced up near the roadway, where a storm in the recent past knocked trees over.

Somehow, I manage coffee. Pour us some the moment it’s done dripping, and bring bowls and spoons out onto my porch. It’s the norm, now, it seems: breakfast on the porch.

I’m trying to not think about how much of her legs are visible. How they’ve gained roundness, regained what I imagine is their former and natural plushness.

Her cheeks have normalized, her waistline no longer frighteningly tiny. Her shoulders no longer look like they could snap if you touched her wrong. The shadows under her eyes are fading, even if the shadows in her eyes have not.

The edges of the hoodie bulge over breasts, where before it wouldn’t have.

I turn away and stare at the sunrise over the lake. “You’re up early.”

She shrugs. “I fell asleep early, I guess, and stayed asleep.” Her fingers touch my forearm, a brief, light moment. “Thank you for carrying me inside.”

I clear my throat. “I, uh, yeah. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you. Hope it’s all right. That I didn’t invade your privacy or anything, I mean.”

“Not at all,” she murmurs. “I’m grateful.”

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say.

She pulls off the lid, revealing thick oatmeal liberally sprinkled with fresh blueberries and quartered strawberries, and my nose detects a hint of honey, I think. “My grandmother’s recipe. A stick to your ribs breakfast, she used to call it.”

It’s delicious. Wakes me up, fills me, warms me.