Chris woke up late Sundays and holidays, which gave Lee time to make tea. He microwaved the water; they didn’t own a tea kettle. It didn’t really boil, but the steam drifted up after four minutes or so, licking his clean-shaven cheeks with welcome softness. If Chris had eaten leftovers the day before, the steam carried a faint smell: barbecue, marinara, greasy undertones of shredded cheese melted on nachos. But when Lee dipped the teabag into the mug, the steam-smell altered to heady spices, soft herbs. Quiet flavors. Lee kept the tea packets in his room, next to the Bible his grandparents had bought when he was born. Its pages, tinged in gold, had remained in the same pristine condition for eighteen years today.