55
“You eat yet?” Roger asked the next morning when I climbed in his car.
“No.” I’d finished off Renee’s muffins for Thanksgiving dinner the night before.
“Uh-huh,” Roger said, giving me a pointed once-over. “That’s what I thought.”
I felt a little more human, after a day of rest, but little more human is still relative, and maybe it hadn’t trickled down to my appearance yet. Roger was sporting his version of holiday casual wear, a rusty orange sweater and charcoal slacks. As for me, at least my jeans weren’t bloody. That’s alright—I didn’t mind looking like crap if it meant Roger was buying me breakfast.
Roger was kind and waited until I’d inhaled a ridiculously large plate of huevos rancheros before asking the million dollar question.
“You want to tell me where you were Wednesday n
