She glanced over her shoulder to see Imani in the neighboring sitting room, dark curls cascading onto a couch’s roll arm. Sneaking around was silly, Tonya told herself. The home’s size and her subservient relationship to the man who owned it was unnecessarily intimidating her. If she was going to be living here for any length of time, she’d need to work out the kitchen-share situation with the mistress of the house. What part of the pantry did her off-the-books-work-for-rent agreement entitle her to? Would it change after her first unemployment check came and she was paying them?

The microwave blared that her sandwich was ready. Tonya removed it, batting it between her palms until it cooled enough to easily hold. Steam clouded the plastic covering. Peanut butter oozed from a seam in the sealed bread. The unmistakable smell intensified her hunger. Tonya worked the sandwich up over the lip of the packaging and sank her teeth in.

Hot peanut butter and jam scalded her tongue. Tonya didn’t care. There was something so delicious about a PB&J. It was the taste of her youth on the farm. The flavor of childhood.

She took another bite as she headed into the sitting room, swallowing it moments before speaking. “Hi, Imani.”

Philip’s wife looked up from her cell phone. Her nostrils expanded like she’d whiffed garbage. The expression quickly vanished behind a strained smile. Still, Tonya had clocked it.

“I was hoping to talk to you about the food situation,” Tonya said, overenunciating to cover the remnants of backwoods Pennsylvania that occasionally crept into her speech. “I purchased some groceries today and put them in one of the freezer drawers. I stored a few other things in the pantry.”

Imani nodded. A noncommittal gesture. I understand, it said. Not, Oh, sure, mi casa es su casa.

“Obviously, I wouldn’t expect you to share anything in your fridge,” Tonya continued. “I can label my groceries with a marker if you want so that we don’t get the food mixed up. I know I’m renting rooms, not room and board.”

Imani’s nose wrinkled as she said “rent.” The woman pointed at her sandwich. “Is that a peanut butter Hot Pocket?”

Tonya waved her food. “Frozen PB and J. They’re great for a quick snack.”

Imani’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned before. Philip and Jay are highly allergic to peanuts. It’s genetic, apparently. We try not to have it in the house.”

Tonya’s earlier conversation with Philip came back to her. He’d said he was allergic, but he’d also said that he used peanut oil in the fryer. Clearly, his allergy didn’t preclude peanuts being in the vicinity. “Oh. Philip had mentioned a sensitivity to them, but I thought it was only dangerous if he ate something containing peanuts.”