Once, when the Morans’ car had broken down on the way to Grandpa Moran’s funeral, Thomas and his mother and father stayed in a hotel. It was the kind of hotel business people stayed in when they had to be out of town for weeks at a time. It had a kitchenette with dishes that couldn’t break and a couch that pulled out to make a bed. There was a vase with flowers made out of fabric and trapped in gooey stuff that looked like water.

Aunt Sadie’s apartment reminded Thomas of that hotel. Everything in its place. She was a lot like his father in that way.

On Saturday, Thomas was in the kitchenette in his stocking feet, staring at the Revolutionnaire box along with Aunt Sadie.

“I guess we should start with the instruction manual.” Aunt Sadie cut the tape, opened the box flaps, lifted out the Styrofoam, and pulled out the lid, which had a feed tube.

She handed it to Thomas; as he turned it over, a part fell off.

Did I break it already?

“Don’t worry.” Aunt Sadie studied the illustration from the instruction manual. “I think it’s supposed to come apart. Hey, here’s a DVD. Want to visit your old friend Philippe?”

Aunt Sadie seemed relieved to move away from the machine and over to the couch opposite her big-screen TV.

Thomas wondered what Philippe would look like on such a big TV. He’d only ever seen him on the little one that his mother and father had in their bedroom.

But in place of Philippe, a woman dressed in a T-shirt and a sunflower apron appeared on the screen. She had long blond hair in a ponytail tied in such a way that it spilled over her shoulder. Her name was Ashley Prentiss. The announcer said she was a raw food chef from Atlanta, Georgia, and creator of the blog Flashley.com, where thousands of people visited every day to heal themselves of everything from migraines to acid reflux.

“There is a living spirit in the food that we can harness to heal us,” Ashley said. In a soft Southern drawl, she told the listeners of her own digestive problems, which began in childhood with strange pains in her stomach every time she ate, and then she moved on to how to make crackers out of sprouted grains.

“She’s the upgrade? Seriously?” Aunt Sadie grabbed the remote. “Can you believe this, Thomas? I’d much rather learn to make artery-clogging French food.

“Where’s the menu?” Searching until she found “Using Your Revolutionnaire,” she and Thomas watched Ashley demonstrate the same basic procedures Philippe had: how to lock the work bowl and lid into place and hold the blades by their hubs.

They watched in silence, letting Ashley fill up the empty air with her exclamations: “You can’t mess this up.” “Here’s a trick I learned from my time at the ashram.”

Next to him, Aunt Sadie began making a funny huffing noise as her shoulders moved back and forth. Thomas put his hand on his aunt’s arm.

“I know your not talking has something to do with your…sadness about your mom,” she said between sobs, because she was truly crying now, tears running down her face and her nose running, too. “But I can’t take it, Thomas. I really can’t. You’re the only one I have to talk to. When Helen stopped…well, when she basically stopped talking, it was just you and me. And now…I feel like I’ve lost both of you.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she continued: “I’m sorry. I just had to say that. It’s okay. We’re both sad. We’re just sad…in different ways.” She looked up at Thomas. “We’ll make it through this.”

Looking at his aunt’s red-splotched face gave Thomas a feeling like Dave was rolling his wings around himself like a blanket. Flopping onto the floor of his stomach, Dave’s muffled voice reached Thomas.

“Do something!” his butterfly pleaded.

“I have an idea,” Thomas whispered.

Aunt Sadie tilted her head and regarded Thomas: “Go.” Sniffling, she pointed the remote at the screen and pushed the off button.

“Maybe I can only talk when I’m with you…Maybe…it’s magic.”

“I’ll take it.” Tossing the remote onto the couch instead of putting it in the basket, Aunt Sadie moved over to her kitchen table. Thomas put the loop of his apron over his head. It wasn’t long enough anymore—the ties hit him at his ribs—but he didn’t mind.

“Now let’s figure out how to work this baby.” Adopting Ashley’s Southern drawl, Aunt Sadie continued: “Place the work bowl on the base—off center.”

“She said left of center.”

“Right. I mean left.” Wiping away the last of her tears with the sleeve of her blouse, Aunt Sadie put the work bowl on the base and clicked it into place. “That was satisfying. What happens next?”

“ ‘The lid of your food processor has a feed tube that the food pusher fits into.’ ” Thomas read aloud from the instruction manual as he held up the parts for Aunt Sadie.

“Highly technical, but I think I understand.”

Running his finger along the side of the work bowl, Thomas said: “Note the interlock mechanism. You have to put the lid just to the right of the mechanism. Now turn it counterclockwise and it should click into place.”

Aunt Sadie did as she was told. “I like the way it clicks. It’s like instant feedback. Didn’t we watch a show once where they taught cats how to do tricks using a clicker?”

“With my mo—” Thomas said.

Just like that, Thomas was transported to the Morans’ worn comforter, the flickering light of their television at the foot of the bed, and his mother nestled between him and Aunt Sadie.

He stood there, frozen. The knowledge that this experience, which seemed like such an ordinary occurrence to be enjoyed on any evening, was gone from him—maybe forever—took his breath away.

Grabbing Thomas, Aunt Sadie wrapped him in a hug. “It’s okay. That happens to me, too; it feels like, all of a sudden, you’re standing at the opening of a big dark hole.”

Aunt Sadie did not let go of Thomas. “It’s okay,” she said again. “Breathe, Thomas.”

Thomas could not say how long they held each other and did what people do every day without even thinking—breathe in, breathe out—and he waited for Dave to stop fluttering his wings at the bottom of his air pipe. Aunt Sadie took Thomas’s face in her hands and asked, “Okay to let go?”

Thomas nodded and she picked up the food pusher, stuck it into the feed tube, and pressed the on button. “Why won’t it turn on?”

Thomas swallowed. “You have to push it down hard to make sure it is engaged.”

“I did that. So why won’t this stupid thing turn on?”

“You have to plug it in, too.”

“Duh.” Aunt Sadie reached across Thomas to grab the cord and plug it into an outlet.

Thomas and his aunt practiced using the pulse button.

“Shouldn’t we cook something with it?” Thomas asked.

“I guess so.”

They moved to the refrigerator, which was filled mostly with white light, but also a plastic bowl with some cut-up fruit, a container of yogurt, and a couple of takeout boxes from General Tso’s Chinese Palace.

“Well,” Aunt Sadie said. “We can’t make zucchini noodle spaghetti or raw falafel or any of the other disgusting things that Ashley makes. Let’s see…” Yanking open the vegetable crisper drawer at the bottom, she pointed to a bag. “I have some baby carrots. We can practice with those.”

So they inserted the shredder disk and Aunt Sadie loaded the feed tube with baby carrots. Handing Thomas the food pusher, she said: “Have at it.”

Aunt Sadie pushed the button as Thomas pressed down hard. In less than a minute all of the baby carrots had become shreds of carrot. There was a moment of silence as they stared into the work bowl.

Now what? Thomas wondered. Aunt Sadie’s lower lip was nipped under her teeth.

“By the way,” he began. “I have a butterfly in my stomach. His name is Dave.”

Pushing back his bangs, Aunt Sadie asked: “Why does he stay down there in the dark?”

“Because it’s safe.”

“I see. I don’t suppose butterflies like shredded carrots.”

Thomas shook his head. “Or frozen casseroles,” he said. “Or Texas toast.”

“I wonder if Dave likes minestrone soup,” Aunt Sadie mused. “You know, the kind they have at Tuscan Express? With the buttered breadsticks?”

Thomas nodded. He thought so.

“Let me get my dry cleaning together and we’ll go get some. That’s enough practice for one day, don’t you think?” Disappearing into her bedroom, Aunt Sadie returned moments later with her arms full of blouses and pants, frowning. “But…does the magic work in restaurants, too? Will you be able to talk in Tuscan Express?”

Thomas sat down on the couch, pressing his hands to his knees and his face to the back of his hands until it hurt, waiting for the right answer to come.

Yes, the magic said to him. I work at Tuscan Express.

“I think,” Thomas said, lifting his head, “the magic is you.”