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“Competent?” she’d whisper to the empty kitchen. “No, Grandpa. We’re alive.”
The first time Elara tasted the piri-piri —a thumb-sized, blood-red spear of a pepper—she was seven years old and had stolen it from her grandmother’s drying basket. Her grandfather, Vasco, caught her chewing, eyes already streaming. Instead of scolding, he laughed a deep, sea-salt laugh. peri peri spice rub
Julian strode in, fork in hand. He cut a piece of thigh. The skin shattered. Juice ran clear with a tint of sunset orange. He chewed. He closed his eyes. A long silence. “Competent