The layered, chocolatey intensity of a Sumatran blend stirred in Becca"s nose.
Her eyes were closed and heavy with slumber.
A lamp shone against her closed eyelids. She sensed the warmth and light, but she adjusted her head, nestling it deeper into her arms.
"Are you going to wake up or what?" a voice asked.
Cristián.
Becca opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep, her head in her arms like a kid playing heads-up 7-Up. The lamp on her eyes was one of the mason jar lights hanging over the bar.
She was in the Wicked Cat. Soft morning light streamed through the windows. The place looked as if it had never been attacked. Patrons breakfasted in the booths. In the kitchen, the microwave dinged.
Cristián sat on a stool next to her. His gaunt frame had returned to how she remembered it, like
