When Dom walked through the door to Yolks on You on Saturday he went immediately for an empty table. It was already eleven; Kiko had been up for hours and was trying not to yawn so much in front of the customers. When he got a chance he crossed to Dom, standing in case anyone needed him.
“Hey,” he said. “Get any sleep?”
Dom did not look up from the notepad he was scribbling on. Kiko saw an open children’s placemat from Pasta la Vista sitting on the table; Dom was scribbling down the names of all the businesses on it. He’d written things by some of the names. Kiko could see excessive grief—killed own cow? next to the brewery and extra funding for poor and/or bibles next to the church.
“Dom?”
“More sleep than you, I think,” he said. “Slept ‘til eight. But I’ve been meaning to write this
