31
Forty-eight hours. That’s all I get until someone taps my forehead and waves a maple-smelling delight under my nostrils.
Eyes squinted. The room is too bright. Head is hurting. I vaguely remember wine, definitely some Bailey’s, marathon television on Netflix …
“Get up, lazy bones. You stink.”
Gretchen’s home!
“Hey! Hi,” I say, sitting up. An open box of donuts sits on the table. I did smell maple. A whole box of maple bars. They’re not Piewalker turnovers but beggars need sugar. “How are you? Are you okay? Did you hear about the paper?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. I just needed a few days away. Brant Cole’s a douche. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
I bite into a pillowy fluff of baked dough. “Are you still mad at me?”
She plops into the chair across and drops her purse to the floor
