We sipped our Red Rose tea. An impasse this early—she was probably working out how to call Joellen to pick me up.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to go. Not yet.

“Wait,” I said. “They said I have to get school credit to work all year. Would that make it okay? You could come with me, meet Jane, the lady with the…school credits? Oh, and I heard they do a thing with U of W? So really it’s a class; it’s like independent study!” Thanks, Creepy Man-Bun Natan.

Francine sighed and got up from the table but said nothing. It was maddening. She opened the refrigerator and brought a shallow dish of custard to the table. She tossed a handful of sugar on top and fired up a little butane blowtorch. “Watch your hair,” she said, and aimed the blue flame at the sugar, which melted into an amber glass sheet on the custard.

The hiss of the flame sent Terry Johnson skittering down his doggy steps and under Francine’s bed.

“Oh, come on, you big baby,” Francine called to him. She handed me a spoon and with her own, cracked the sugar glass and scooped it up with custard. She eyeballed me until I did, too.

Was this custard code for yes? Or no? I took a bite.

Holy hell. I closed my eyes. Otherworldly. This was the fanciest meal I’d ever eaten in all my life. It seemed likely she made every single thing from scratch.

“Crème brûlée,” she said.

I took another spoonful. What. About. Salishwood?

“Want me to teach you how to make it?”

I nodded.

She put more strawberries on my plate. “Colleges like internships,” she said.

I held my breath.

“I’m going with you next shift to make sure you’re getting school credit, and I’ll tell Joellen myself. Transferable college credit.”

Whatever. I exhaled. “Okay.”

“Your GPA has to stay where it is.”

“Always does.” Hope crept in.

“No more doing ambiguously not cool things and then apologizing after. It’s exhausting and part of the pile of reasons I retired from fostering. Just ask first. Too soon for this nonsense if you’re planning to stay with me all year. Agreed?”

Straightforward. Calling me on my shit. But still—kind. Refreshing.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do I have your word?”

I smiled so hard my face hurt. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Not for nothing, you’re my last,” she said.

“Same.”

She laughed. And weak with relief I nearly did, too.

The brûlée was probably four servings’ worth. We ate the whole thing.

“Francine.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She sipped her tea and smiled at me over her cup.

“I’ve never had a real tea before,” I said as I cleared the table, and we stood together at the sink, Francine rinsing, me loading the dishwasher. “Is it supposed to be so much?”