“No they don’t. They got Yat Italian—red gravy and breadcrumb stuffing. This is a real recipe from G’s great-grammaw.”
“Well, I don’t care. I don’t want to do Italian stuff.”
“It’s your kitchen, dude,” Rickey said, but he was a little stung. If his name was going to be on the place, he thought he should have more input than Milford seemed inclined to give him. He couldn’t find the strength to argue much, though. Personally and professionally, Rickey was at a low ebb. The Vicodin had taken a lot of the fight out of him, and while he’d liked that at first—the unfamiliar calmness, the not always having to gnaw—he was beginning to wonder if it was a good thing after all. Far too often, he felt tired and queasy by the middle of the day. Sometimes he took out the acupuncture pamphlet and flipp
