TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN
“Based on the smell, whose cholesterol are you trying to murder today, Bi?”
Marisol clicked her tongue, though her lips twitched. “You’ve been home a few days and already your mouth runs wild,” she said. “This is garlic for arepas. A person who just came back from a kidnapping needs carbs, not a diet.”
“Called it,” I muttered. “If I die, you all will probably stuff my coffin with cornmeal.”
“A little to the right,” her voice cut in.
“What?”
“To the right.” She flicked her spatula toward the shelves behind me. “Grab the masarepa flour. Your hands still work, don’t they, princesa?”
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