“No, I am the late one,” he said, huffing as he closed the door behind him. He made for the fridge and was immensely pleased to see there was a full pitcher of horchata. “Excuse me,” he said. “My parents would literally murder me if they saw me do this, but I’m so thirsty.”

He removed the lid and drank straight from the pitcher. He regretted absolutely nothing, not even when he drained half the horchata in one go and felt bloated.

“Wow,” she said. “That was . . . impressive. But also kinda gross?”

He bowed. “Welcome to my life.”

“I mean, who just chugs milk like that? Not my lactose-intolerant self.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, Juliana, I am going to change your life!” The idea came to him, and he just went with it. He put the pitcher back in the fridge and closed it. Upon opening it, he found a brand-new pitcher, completely full.

“Perfect!” Héctor exclaimed. He looked to the table behind him.

There was now an empty glass.

Exactly what he needed.

He poured only a quarter cup of horchata and handed it to Juliana. “This is mi abuela’s recipe,” he explained. “Don’t ask me how it shows up here.”

Juliana hesitated as she took the glass. “So . . . it’s not milk? Then what is it?”

“Definitely not. Some people make it with milk, but Abuela only uses five ingredients: arroz, water, cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla.”

She tentatively took a sip. He watched her roll the flavor around her tongue, and then she tipped her head to the side. “Whoa,” she said. “That’s good good.”

Juliana downed the rest, then held out the glass. “Okay, I’m sold. This is incredible.”

As he poured her another glass of the liquid of the gods, a warmth spread in his chest. Juliana drank most of it down, and she looked to him, a huge smile on her face. I guess that’s all it takes to make people happy to see me, he thought, then smiled himself. He was being dramatic, he knew that, but it still felt nice that she was pleased.

So he quietly thanked his abuela for the horchata.

Juliana was the first to start talking. She asked about Orangevale: What the weather was like. How long he and his family had lived there. What his life was like back in San Francisco. He asked about living in Charleston, and she told him that one of her favorite things about the city was the food. “Even our cafeteria meals are bomb,” she said. “Every. Day.”

“Can’t say the same of my school,” he said. “I don’t even think what we eat qualifies as ‘food.’”

She grimaced. “That sounds awful.”

“That word isn’t strong enough to describe it.”