12
“Breakfast!” I called when room service arrived with an enormous platter of culinary wonders including a pile of bacon, a tall stack of pancakes, oatmeal, scrambled eggs, fruit, and a few bagels. And of course, a large carafe of coffee.
It was Sunday morning. I’d managed about six hours of sleep, but they were good solid hours of deep, dreamless zonkage. Besides, there were a few panels I wanted to attend before StoryCon wrapped up.
“Juanita, breakfast!” I repeated.
“Mmphnrph,” she replied into her pillow. As the owner at The Main Drag, she rarely woke before noon.
I poured a cup of coffee, black, and brought it over to her. She wore a black silk sleeping mask. But her nose twitched at the scent of the coffee.
“Que hora est, mi’ja?”
“Ocho de la mañana, tía. Time to get up, sleepy
