The spice of cinnamon explodes on Carolyn‘s tongue, enhanced by vanilla and cream. She licks the whipped cream from Serina‘s finger, savoring it as Serina withdraws, her cheek flushed.

Carolyn‘s tongue tingles. “It‘s good.”

“It‘s the best,” Serina corrects her softly, licking the last of the cream from her fingertip before she picks up her spoon and digs in.

“Dad said you're twins.“

“We are twins, but we're predictive, not telepathic,“ Carolyn says.

“She's predictive. I'm not,“ Kit adds.

“Not possible. You're twins. You're both predictive or you're both not predictive.“