Story:

The party began before Peach found all the bowls.

Butterfly had already opened the chips. Violet was arranging the drinks on the low table with the ceremonial care of someone preparing offerings, while Peach stood in the narrow kitchen confronting their purchases.

Three kinds of instant noodles.

Frozen sausages. Miso soup paste. An entirely unreasonable quantity of cheese.

She rolled up her sleeves. “Fine. Watch and learn.”

Violet appeared beside the counter. “Is this a specialty of your world?”

“Extremely famous.” Peach tipped the noodles into a pot.

“Among young people?”

“Especially.”

The seasoning followed, then the sausages and a squeeze of miso paste. Steam rose into her face. She stirred with the longest pair of chopsticks she could find and tried to look as though every decision had been made in advance.

“What is it called?” Butterfly asked.

Peach considered the increasingly crowded pot. “Army-ration noodles.”

Both sisters looked impressed. That made it worse.

A few minutes later, they were seated around the low table with bowls warming their hands. Butterfly tasted the broth, paused, and immediately took another spoonful.

Violet examined a sausage as though it concealed an important culinary principle.

“The texture is remarkably consistent.”

“Yes,” Peach said weakly.

Butterfly slurped a noodle. “This is wonderful.”

Peach looked into her bowl. Sorry.

Someday, when there was time and money and nobody had just threatened the stability of two worlds, she would take them somewhere proper. A steakhouse. Cloth napkins. Food that had not come with an illustrated packet of powder.

For tonight, she quietly pushed the largest sausage into Butterfly’s bowl.