Riley takes a step toward the counter, and naturally, her dog follows, eager for a crumb to fall from the tall stack of little cakes. She sighs a moment before her expression perks up once again.

“Today’s breakfast-special is twist on uhhm, an American classic,” the chef continues with an air of sophistication, “Silver-dollar pancakes infused with a strawberry…com…com, compotay? — Fancy jelly! And made just the way you like’em, Lex.”

At least Riley’s gourmet French is at least better than my attempt at basic English. Each word seems to tumble out of my throat at a different pitch. “Pancakes do—does…sound…fancy?”

She hands over a plate lets out a nervous laugh. “You must’ve went to bed pretty late, huh?”

“Y-Yes…that,” I croak, “Does my voice sound err, strange? Higher pitched?”

Riley pauses for a moment to think, eyes darting back and forth before blurting out the unexpected: “Orange juice!”