Eggs crack. Butter pops in a hot pan. Her father is telling an abridged story of their flight, train stations, fearful crowds, omitting the stop in Evreux, but soon all of Marie-Laure’s attention is absorbed by the smells blooming around her: egg, spinach, melting cheese. An omelet arrives. She positions her face over its steam. “May I please have a fork?” The old woman laughs: a laugh Marie-Laure warms to immediately.
