THE kitchen was quiet except for the rhythmic clatter of utensils and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Orlanda stood by the stove, stirring a pot of simmering stew, her mind swirling still with thoughts Carlson's request. The smell of herbs and spices filled the air, offering a small comfort amidst the turmoil. She tried to focus on the task at hand, the steady chopping of vegetables and the gentle sizzle of meat, hoping it would help clear her thoughts.

Her hands moved almost mechanically as she ladled the stew into a large serving dish, her mind wandering back to Carlson's ominous words. The tension from the conversation still gnawed...