The waitress glanced beneath the table, where Gypsy sat quietly at Barry’s feet.
“I think we can manage that.”
I ordered the cheapest bowl of soup on the menu.
Emma noticed immediately.
“You said we could get whatever we wanted.”
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“You can.”
“So can you.”
“I want soup.”
She gave me a long look.
It was the expression she wore whenever she knew I was pretending but loved me too much to embarrass me by saying so.
Barry ate slowly, almost carefully, as though he had forgotten what it felt like to eat without worrying where the next meal would come from.
Every few minutes, he slipped a small piece of food under the table to Gypsy.
When the bill arrived, Emma opened her purse.
She counted every bill and coin twice.
It took nearly everything she had.
Barry watched her push the money toward the waitress.
