THE BOY DREW MOTORCYCLES ON HIS PLACEMAT WHILE HIS STOMACH SCREAMED LOUDER THAN THE THUNDER OUTSIDE. HE SAID HE WAS “FINE” BUT HIS LIPS WERE CRACKED. THEN THE MAN THEY CALLED “BEAR” SLID A STACK OF BILLS ACROSS THE TABLE WITHOUT COUNTING IT. WHY DID HE ASK ABOUT A SISTER IN PHOENIX?
I set the phone down on the counter like it was made of glass. My fingers were cold. The coffee machine kept hissing. Eddie’s spatula scraped the grill in a rhythm that suddenly felt obscenely normal. Bear was still standing near Sarah’s table. He hadn’t sat back down. His eyes were on me before I…
