No meal with Isla would be complete without one cool shot of adrenaline, poured especially for me. It’s served straight up my spine, numbness across the chest, heart pumping through the ears, fingers tingling. She offers it in the kitchen, when my back is turned away from her. I’m facing the counter, slicing and dicing her serving of whatever’s on the menu. I hear her gentle coughing, then a sharp gag, then a moment of silence that lasts an odd second too long. The instant I whip around to face her—those cherub cheeks flushed red, her eyes uncertain, more silence—the adrenaline shoots right through me with a lone thought, She’s choking! Oh my god! This time, she’s really choking! Though I’ve thought this a couple…