The braised quail eggs were only half-cooked when Tracy had to abandon them, switching off the burner with a frustrated sigh as she hurried from the kitchen.
"Moanna! Did you call security?" Her voice carried an edge of urgency. "What's the food critic's condition?"
"Security's handling it," Moanna replied, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. "We contacted Mr. Kindell's family—they found him unconscious and rushed him to Aspen Hospital."
"Alright, don't panic." Tracy grabbed her keys, the metal jangling sharply. "You go ahead to Aspen Hospital. I'll be there in fifteen."
"But Tracy..." Moanna's voice cracked. "The restaurant's surrounded. Protesters are calling us 'poison peddlers,' demanding we shut down. Some are even shouting... shouting we should be run out of Alenville."
The
