I reached Lincoln that night.
The restaurant lights were still on. The storefront was worn and faded, reading "Smith's Kitchen."
Wendy led me upstream. The room wasn't big. The sheets were fresh, and there was a desk by the window. A pot of gardenias sat on the windowsill.
She looked a little nervous. "We didn't know what you like, so we just fixed it up a little. If you don't like it, I'll take you shopping tomorrow."
I touched the bedsheet. "No need. It's perfect."
Arthur stood at the door, fidgeting with his hands. "You hungry? I'll whip you up some noodles."
I nodded. "Yeah."
It wasn't anything fancy—just noodles tossed with some fresh spinach and a few slices of beef, topped with a poached egg.
Wendy just sat across from me, watching. Every time I took a bite, her eyes got a l
