13
Safe House
I stirred endless circles in my porridge, sat on a stool at the breakfast bar on the end of the kitchen island, thinking about Auntie Claire. The feelings came like freak waves out of nowhere, submerging me in brief bouts of ice-cold despair. I’d stop whatever I was doing, for example, stirring warmed-up oats and milk Philippe had brought over from the farmhouse. Then the wave would roll on through and I’d bob up back to the surface. I’d take a breath and continue stirring.
I hated porridge, but it was good for my heart. After porridge it was cabbage, picked fresh from the field, cut up and steamed. I hated cabbage, but it was good for my heart.
“There must be something else to eat,” I said, chewing tiredly on a shred of dark-green yak.
“Eat it,” Philippe said. “It’s goo
