Walking back to the cottage felt completely unreal. Just an hour ago, I was lying in the grass, feeling a sense of peace I'd never known. Now, I was carrying the person who had shattered that peace, and my new superhuman body, thankfully, didn't even feel the strain. She was surprisingly light. I could feel the sharp angles of her shoulders and the lean muscle of her legs through her ragged gown. It was a sad, clear sign that she hadn't eaten a good meal in a very, very long time. What kind of life did you have to live to try and kill a stranger for, I assumed, whatever scraps he might have?
I pushed open the wooden door to my new home and stepped inside. The single room felt both tiny and huge at the same time. I carefully carried her over to the straw-stuffed mattress in the corner. It was my only bed, the only real comfort in the whole place. Without a second thought, I gently laid her down on it. The person who tried to kill me was now sleeping in my bed. The old me, the one who planned every variable, would have had a system failure just thinking about it.
With the immediate danger gone, I just stood there for a few minutes, watching her. The soft light from the single window fell across her face, and my new brain—the one blessed with the soul of an artist—started to see things.
Wow. She was beautiful. Not in the polished, perfect way of the models I used to see in magazines, but in a raw, untamed way. Her skin was fair, even under the smudges of dirt. Her jaw had an elegant, strong line to it. And her hair… that lilac color was unbelievable. It wasn't dyed; it was her natural color, fanned out across the rough blanket like a spill of pale purple ink. My fingers literally twitched with the urge to see what it would look like clean and brushed, maybe braided with some of the wildflowers from the meadow.
Then she stirred. Her lips, pale and chapped, parted. A single, weak, breathy word escaped, the same one as before.
"...food..."
The sound snapped me out of it. Right. She wasn't a painting to look at; she was a starving person. Problem-solving mode: engaged.
I dashed over to the small kitchen area. It was basically just a stone hearth and a couple of shelves. My eyes scanned everything, my engineer's mind taking inventory. Okay, what do we have to work with? A few potatoes, half a cauliflower, some dried beans, a handful of fiery red chilies, and a couple of onions. Not bad. In a small cloth pouch, I found salt and a mix of fragrant spices I didn't recognize, but they smelled warm and earthy. And in a big clay pot, thank god, there was a good amount of rice. It looked like the guy whose body I was borrowing, for all his lonely life, at least didn't eat completely bland food.
A memory flashed in my head. Me, back at my sterile apartment near MIT. I was a terrible cook at first, but I learned. Cooking was like chemistry. A set of inputs, a process, and a desired output. I used to measure everything perfectly—3 grams of salt, 10 milliliters of oil. It was a lonely habit, something I did just for myself. I gave a small, grim smile. Who knew that a skill I learned out of loneliness would be the first thing I'd use to help someone else? Pretty handy, actually.
"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Let's see what we can do."
I got to work with a new sense of purpose. I used some flint I found near the hearth to light a fire. The flames licked up the dry wood, and a comforting warmth began to fill the small cottage. I washed the vegetables in a bucket of fresh well water and started chopping them with a crude but sharp knife I found. The motions felt surprisingly natural. My new body was coordinated in a way I never was before.
Soon, the sizzle of onions and chilies filled the air, followed by the rich aroma of the spices as I tossed them into the hot, dented pot. The whole cottage, which had smelled of dust and damp earth, was now filled with the warm, delicious promise of a real meal.
With the steaming bowl of what I guess you could call "veg fried rice" in my hands, I walked back over to the bed. The smell was amazing, and my own stomach rumbled in agreement.
She was still completely out. I gently shook her shoulder. "Hey," I said softly. "Hey, wake up. Food is ready."
Nothing. She was completely limp.
"Okay, plan B," I whispered. This was going to be awkward. I sat on the edge of the bed, propped her head up a little with my free hand, and scooped up a small amount of rice and vegetables with the wooden spoon. My heart was pounding. This was probably the closest I'd ever been to a woman in my entire life.
I carefully brought the spoon to her lips, gently nudging it against them. For a second, nothing happened. Then, her lips parted slightly, and I managed to get the small bite into her mouth.
The effect was instantaneous.
Her entire body jolted as if struck by lightning. Her brilliant blue eyes snapped open, wide and staring. They weren't focused on me, but on some distant point, as if her brain was trying to process an impossible new piece of data. The look in her eyes wasn't just surprise; it was pure, overwhelming shock.
And my brain, my old, socially anxious brain, immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. She's awake, she's angry, and she's going to finish the job.
I recoiled, dropping the spoon on the bed and holding my hands up. "Don't kill me!" I yelped, my voice cracking. "I'm sorry! This is the only thing I could make right now!"
But she wasn't looking at me with anger. Her gaze shifted from the ceiling down to the wooden bowl in my lap. An intense, almost holy reverence filled her eyes. With a speed that defied her weak state, she sat bolt upright. She snatched the bowl from my hands, not even looking at me, and began to devour the food. She didn't bother with the spoon. She just scooped it up with her hands, stuffing it into her mouth with a desperate hunger that was both scary and heartbreaking to watch.
After several large, frantic mouthfuls, she suddenly paused. She looked down at the half-empty bowl, then up at me. Her eyes were shining with tears that hadn't fallen yet. Her voice was raspy, filled with a disbelief so pure it ached.
"What… what is this?" she asked, her voice cracking. "It tastes so… good. It isn't bland. It's warm, and… and there are so many spices… and flavors… and the smell…" She took another deep breath, as if trying to memorize the aroma. "What is this?"
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The tension drained out of me, replaced by a wave of sympathy so strong it almost knocked me over. I managed a small, shaky smile.
"Veg fried rice."