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Since she got injured at work, Mummy has been trapped in a cyclone. For four years she's been imprisoned by pain radiating from her back, spinning around and within her. Either the pills never did what they were supposed to in the first place, or they stopped working. Fast. For a long time, no one believed her. An immigrant Black woman with a heavy accent crying about pain? Pain that doesn't manifest in a way that's visible to the world, that only she can feel? She might as well have been speaking to aliens when she went to doctors for help. But a year ago, we were finally able to find a neurologist who listened and decided to implant a pump in Mummy's abdomen that releases timed doses of oxymorphenol to the base of her spine. And it helps.

But her pump has been empty for five days now. A convoluted issue with her insurance company that's kept her from getting a refill. It beeps every ten minutes to remind Mummy and me, and anyone within a six-foot radius, that it needs feeding. As if she could forget. What makes this all especially messed up is the fact that Mummy literally works for the family whose company produces her medication, and her bosses have never asked her how they might be able to help. Not once. Even though the only reason she's suffering in the first place is because she got injured on the job, helping the patriarch of their family, Mr. Beauregard. The injustice of it enrages me. But I don't share that with many people, because that's our family's business. Like Mummy has always said, that's not something I need to share with the world.

I crack open three eggs on the side of a pan with more force than needed. Pieces of white shell swim around in bubbling butter and I fish them out with a fork before folding in the pieces of brain. Scrambled brain looks a lot like scrambled egg. That's one of my favorite things about food. Some dishes are considered mundane while others are hailed as innovation. When really, it's all in what we've decided to elevate. What we say is acceptable.

The pita bread I heated up in my trusty, rusty microwave oven is the perfect temperature. Hot enough to scald the roof of your mouth until a blister forms and the palate begins to peel. I wait for it to cool down some more, though, because I know what Mummy would say about 'that'.

I plate the food quickly. I tuck my egg-brain scramble into the cooled- down bread, load it with diced avocado, and garnish it with cilantro. I serve Mummy her portion from the couch where she's adjusted herself to eat more comfortably, and I sit on the floor in front of her to dig in.

"I've been in the mood for brain for weeks now," I say, looking up to meet her face. "I woke up one day and wondered, 'What does a cerebellum taste like? And if I ate it from, say, a tightrope walker, would it give me better coordination?'"

I laugh. Mummy doesn't join in. Oh.

"Brielle," Mummy says tiredly. "Please don't say that outside this room."

There are a lot of things I can't say outside our house. Things you wouldn't believe could come out of a real person's mouth. That would get me in trouble. As a zombie, you probably expect me to be some repugnant monster who groans and drags heavy feet along concrete, leaving assorted decomposing limbs behind. You think I want to eat your brain just because.

How foolish.

I want to eat your brain because it's delicious, the texture a perfect marriage of mushy and firm, as if one weakly patted dry soaked tofu and ran a toothpick across the surface to carve grooves. But I don't want to upset Mummy. She only wants the best for me. To keep me safe. So I am eating beef.

Come on, now. You're going to have to stomach a lot more than that if we're going to get through this together.

CHAPTER 2

SUPPER CLUB FOR BREAKFAST

"What are your plans for today, Bri-bri?" Mummy asks while I stand to take her plate from her to empty the remaining food into the trash. I keep my movements fluid to hide it, but a hunk of ice has formed in the pit of my stomach. Other people might not be able to read the emotion on my face, but my mom's hawkeyed intuition picks up on even my slightest ticks.

"Oh & nothing too wild," I say, turning my back to her completely in the hope that she doesn't sense my lie.

Normally, Mummy and I head to work together. But today, she has a doctor's appointment that will hopefully resolve her pain pump issue. I feel a little guilty that I won't be joining her, but I know she's got it handled. When I was younger, I used to miss a ton of school so I could help translate the various doctors' orders for Mummy to understand. Imagine our surprise when we got a knock on our door one weekend and it was a social worker sent by the school. He was stopping by to make a wellness visit and identify what could be done to ensure that I didn't get any more absences. I went to fewer of Mummy's appointments after that but I was still there with her from afar, oftentimes stepping out of class to answer her call and translate from one of the bathrooms on campus. Today I'm using this rare morning of solitude to take care of my own business.

Mummy walks over to where I am now washing the dishes in the sink and kisses me on the cheek.