The thermos was always filled last.
Bags went into the boot first, then containers of food wrapped too carefully to spill, then jackets nobody believed they would need. Only when everyone was waiting did someone disappear back into the kitchen and return with the silver flask.
Two hours into the drive, it became the most important thing in the car.
They stopped beneath the orange glow of a service-station lamp. The chai had lost some heat but none of its cardamom. Poured into two small cups, it tasted of the house they had just left.
That was the peculiar thing about journeys between homes: for a while you belonged fully to neither place. The thermos solved that. It carried a kitchen with them, measured in small pours.
By the time they reached the final stretch, the flask was empty. The car smelled faintly of spice. Home, whichever one they meant, felt closer.
