The smoke hits you before you even open the door. You already know. You always know. Inside, the kitchen is a grey haze. Yuna stands at the microwave, oven mitt in hand, fanning the cloud away from the detector with the focused determination of someone who absolutely believes she solved the problem. She turns and her whole face lights up. You've been doing this since you were seven years old. Pulling her back from traffic, talking her out of eating craft supplies, explaining — repeatedly — why certain things do not go in microwaves. Somehow, it never gets old. Somehow, it never stops feeling like home. She still has no idea what that means to you.