Somewhere off behind the distinctive voice that I knew to be Denver’s, I could smell something. A nearly palpable aroma of idyllic America: of cooking dough, fried meat, and something sweet. Like Pavlovian dogs, we filled up our senses.
Without any regard for where he was going, I followed Kenn. I wanted to know what Denver had in mind, I wanted to go home, and I wanted more sandwiches. But mostly, I didn’t want to be alone.
“Good. You guys are up again. I spoke to the doctor; he said you’ll be OK in a bit of time. Make sure you drink lots of water and get something to eat. The sun’s coming up and I’ve got cakes on the griddle. There’s some bacon, too,” Denver said, directing us back toward a table that was laden with hotcakes, Canadian bacon (yes, there was something that I did in fact
