Arthur looked up. For forty years, Arthur Vance had commanded job sites involving two hundred steelworkers and structural engineers with a single glance; his voice carried that deep, gravelly baritone that brokered no debate in municipal zoning hearings.
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“The steak is fine, Brenda,” Arthur said quietly, keeping his voice beneath the rumble of the highway traffic. “Bring me two to-go containers, please. Heavy plastic. And two slices of that Dutch apple pie from the rotating case by the register. Warm them through, pack two pints of whole milk, and put it on a separate ticket.”
Brenda smiled, nodding with that weary, unspoken understanding common to people who work night shifts on holidays. “Right away, honey.”
Arthur didn’t take his eyes off the booth.
