Kenna awoke to the smell of French toast, breakfast sausage, and spiced potatoes. Her dark eyes slowly focused on a heaping plate of the food, which sat at her bedside along with a glass of orange juice and a mug of steaming hot coffee. Light, which peaked out from behind her room’s heavy curtains, caressed the edges of a fork and made it glow. “Heaven?” she asked the meal. Most mornings, the best she could hope for was something she prepared for herself, road food, or occasionally a rare home cooked treat from Dakota.
“I hope not,” replied a familiar voice. “This place has one hell of a kitchen, but I really don’t wanna die in Colorado if I can help it. You weren’t lying about this being the middle of nowhere.”
Sitting up, Ken spied the source lounging in an old chair next to the bed. S
