Book 19: Are We Dead?

Oakley

I can’t remember what I’m doing in our kitchen for a moment. Sunlight drifts through floral print curtains that are oddly unfamiliar. My worktable in the center of the kitchen is covered in scattered flour and the beginnings of… oh, right. Biscuits. To go along with the eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan stationed over the cooking fire. 

I look down at my hands. A fresh jar of honey is clutched tight, still warm from the sun. Ian walks by outside the window with a shovel resting over his shoulder and disappears from sight, and I expect everything to rush back to me, reminding me of what exactly I’ve been doing all morning, but it doesn’t. 

My mind feels hazy. 

I snap out of it when the bacon begins to burn. 

“That smells great,” Ian whispers against the top