Chapter 8As we walked into the Food Bank, the cook, a young man with curly sandy-brown hair, in a long white apron, waved enthusiastically at me. There were only a handful of people at the tables. It was well past one o-clock. The sign on the front door said they were open from seven thirty A.M. until two in the afternoon.”
I also waved to the girl who was clearing the empty tables. “Hi, Jilly,” I called.
“Hi, Ms. Howell,” she called back.
“I didn’t expect you. We still have a lot of eggs and milk. We can probably get through another two days, maybe three,” Jimmy said as we walked up.
“No, we’re here to talk some business,” I said. “Jimmy, this is my accountant, Darlene Rogers.”
“How do you do, Ms. Rogers? Would either of you like a cup of coffee, or tea?”
We both refused.
“Scramble
