CHAPTER 11––––––––
Abby laughed as Mara leaned over the white plastic picnic table, hoping the Sloppy Joe dripping down her cheek would land on her paper plate instead of her T-shirt or shorts. Bruce extended a lanky arm across the table, handing her a paper napkin. She waved him away and retrieved one from her lap. He leaned back and used it to mop his brow, pushing back his damp sandy-colored hair.
He had ridden from his grandfather’s gadget repair shop to meet them at a cluster of food carts situated on an old asphalt lot, located just off the Springwater Trail in southeast Portland. They sat at a white resin picnic table under a green umbrella in front of a bright orange van. Dozens of cyclists and hikers, many with dogs, milled around the twenty or so colorful hand-painted food cart
