He shifted the baby on his shoulders. “Tub.” The baby kicked his chest.
Sher picked up another empty pan, tilted it toward him. She carried it to the fryer, set it down, turned, her intention to walk out of the stand. She had to find Kris. She’d been taught—a dream like that—she turned to leave.
“Hey,” Kris said and tossed a n***d potato into a bin. “Where you going?”
Sher did not flinch. “Nowhere.” She turned back to the pan she’d set down, picked it up. Set it down. Waited for fries. Had she gone crazy? She’d been taught to believe dreams like that. Kris was back and the day was more than half over. Soon they would be done frying potatoes. Nothing bad had happened. Had she misinterpreted the dream? Were dreams just dreams, like the white people said?
The sun dropped from four to five
