I was not trying to talk her body out of its fear.

I was trying to out-evidence it.

Every fresh roll was a single data point in a case I was building, patiently, for the proposition that food would always be there — a case I could not win with a closing argument, only with the relentless accumulation of ordinary, uneventful, safe mornings.

And after nearly two weeks of them, the case was finally strong enough.

Her body reviewed the evidence, and reached its verdict, and released her from the need to hoard.