SAL
Mr Merkel’s house was as neat and spare as his desk at school. The furniture was black leather and chrome, and it smelled new. There were no knickknacks, no pictures on the walls, and no television. The dun-brown carpet was flattened in a path from the front door to the kitchen by countless feet carrying groceries and takeout, and the kitchen, with its white cupboards and white counters, made Sal think of hospitals.
On the counter were six glass pie plates, a set of measuring cups and spoons still in their packaging, and two mixing bowls. He hadn’t realized they would be making so many pies. That must be why Mr Merkel had said it was a big favor.
Mr Merkel opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pint of milk. He poured them each a glass, and they sat on the living room couch. Mr Me
