I glance into the garbage near Riley on my way out and there, under some saran wrap and misprinted labels, are Starr’s instructions. There’s something oily and sticky on them but I pull them out anyway. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few hours for someone else to copy them. Martha is gone by the time I get back to the office area. The chef pops in – he’s a young guy, friendly. He asks if Starr’s feeling better and says he’ll see her tomorrow. I leave the guides, mess and all, on Martha’s desk.
Next door, Starr has fallen asleep again. I let her put most of her weight on me as we walk to the car. “Did it get sorted out?” she asks.
“They’ve decided it would be nice for you to have some time off. You know what’s wonderful about that?”
“What?”
“I have some vacation time too. I was thin
