"He eats," I answer, smiling absently. The skillet's beginning to go dry, so I reach over the flame to grab a bottle of thin oil, adding a splash or two and stirring quickly as the iron pan soaks it up, spitting. I don't notice the heat, but Marvey might be stepping back a pace in a moment or two; hot oil, I've been told, hurts when it hits humanlike skin. I wouldn't know.

"I wish he'd eat while it was still warm, though," I admit, glancing briefly at the kid. "It really does taste better before it's gone all cold and clammy. But he does everything on his own time. Even meals."

I can see him eyeing the pan and I tease him by sliding the spoon around the pan's curve, herding the vegetables toward my side, where it's harder for him to reach. "I haven't even gotten the noodles started yet," I laugh. It's hard not to feel complimented by his eagerness, even though logically I know he'd be this focused on the food no matter what quality it was.

"Unless you just want bunny food for dinner, you'd better be patient."