Free Parts Unknown by S.P. Davidson

we’ll get to know each other over dinner.”
    Trevor was smiling, waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs, his hands encased in oven mitts. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said happily. “I have been cooking all afternoon. I wanted you to try some proper Nigerian food.”
    “I’m so excited, Trevor,” I said warmly. “I’ve never eaten Nigerian food before.”
    “Well, you are in for a treat.” He gestured us toward the kitchen table, transformed into a low-rent dining destination with a wilting dandelion in a jam jar, three mismatched placemats, and bright pink paper napkins. I hugged him impulsively. “No one’s ever cooked me dinner before, either.”
    He patted my head. “Sit, please.”
    Dov tossed himself into a chair. He appeared not to have shaved in a week, and reeked of cigarettes and another, deeper odor—pot, probably. He was wearing a reddish stretched-out T-shirt that appeared to read “Coca-Cola” in Hebrew. “So how do you like London?” he asked.
    “It’s gorgeous!” I enthused. “I haven’t had a chance to see much yet, but it’s so beautiful—the buildings, and everything. And the parks. And . . .”
    “Admit it,” Dov chortled, “You’ve been spending most of your time in Josh’s room, haven’t you? I’ve been waiting to catch a glimpse of this mysterious love interest Josh is all gooey-eyed over.”
    I blushed. “That’s me, I guess. I’m not so mysterious, though.” Ask questions , I instructed myself, pleating my napkin nervously in my lap. “So how long have you been in London?”
    “Since January, actually. I don’t want to go into military service in Israel, and I’m lucky enough to have a British passport, because I happened to be born here. So I’m going to stay away from Israel as long as possible. I don’t want to go back.”
    His English was perfect, his Israeli accent giving it a slightly French sound, the r’s swallowed. His eyes were dark but guileless. “I work at Council Travel. Not my life’s dream, but it’s a job, you know? I’m saving up money to maybe travel the world. Who knows.”
    Meanwhile, Trevor was serving, ladling soup into bowls, and then handing them around. “This is efo ,” he explained. “It’s a smoked fish soup.”
    I tasted, dubiously. It was an acquired taste, but good too—hot and spicy and salty. “Yummy . . . What’s in it?” I asked.
    Dov put a hand up in warning. “You don’t want to know.”
    “Oh, please—tell me, Trevor. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.”
    Trevor, tilting his bowl to slide an unidentifiable piece of meat onto his spoon, said, “It is a dish full of surprises. For example, do you see that red feathery plant in the backyard?”
    “Celosia,” I said. “My mom grows it in her garden too.”
    “Yes, it is one of the ingredients. Also a few other items from the backyard.”
    “Snails!” howled Dov, tickling the back of my neck with a cold hand. I shrieked in surprise, then hastily squelched my outburst, not wanting to be rude. “I would never have guessed,” I said lamely, chewing more slowly on the rubbery morsel in my mouth.
    “Also, smoked fish, tomato, chilies . . .” Trevor enumerated.
    “Thanks Trevor,” I said weakly. “For going to all that trouble. It must have been very labor intensive.”
    “Especially the part where he had to catch the snails,” Dov said. “They tried to outrun him, but our man Trevor is fast .”
    I snorted. “You remind me of my little brother,” I told Dov, and he smirked. The front door squeaked open. I turned to see Boris come in (when had he gone out?), bearing two enormous pieces of shiny blue construction paper. Nodding brusquely in our direction, he entered his room and slammed the door so hard the entire kitchen vibrated.
    It was as if a ghost had shimmered through the kitchen, upsetting the easy balance. It took a moment to recover equilibrium; then Trevor brought over the next dishes. “This is ogbono . It’s a meat