Chapter 7
The sprites lead me to something called Happy Chef, a restaurant in the south wing. It has the feel of an old-fashioned diner. People sit at the counter with newspapers and coffee, and a row of booths fronts the mall’s concourse. Instead of big bay windows, the space is open. You could vault over the low wall and plant yourself in a booth.
In one of those booths sits William. On the table in front of him may be the largest cinnamon roll in existence. It takes up an entire dinner plate, and the roll itself is slathered with at least a quarter-inch of icing. He reaches for the thermal carafe of coffee at the table’s center and pours himself a cup.
I resist the urge to hop the wall. I don’t want to get thrown out before speaking to him. I imagine they frown on wall-hopping here.
