I told myself I was doing this for Keme.
Somehow, I managed to get myself off the chesterfield and into a mostly, er, vertical position.Wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, I went in search of something to make the pre-noon hours slightly more bearable.
In the kitchen, Indira was arranging cinnamon rolls in a pan.Her dark hair was pulled back, and she wore a lovely brown sweater, sensible dark trousers, and an apron dusted with flour.Sitting at the counter, Fox held the crust of what surely had been a delicious, crunchy buttery slice of toast.They were dressed today as a kind ofNewsies-era newsboy (newsperson?) with a dash of Elizabethan fop—newsboy cap, sleeve garters, vest, and then, from the waist down, it was a hop-skip-and-a-jump backward in time to the era of breeches and stockings.(I’ve just been reliably informed that fops are a Jacobean phenomenon, not Elizabethan, but I refuse to change it; it’s a matter of principle.)
“I’m worried about Keme,” I said.
Or tried to say.
What came out was a zombie-like groan.
“Coffee’s in the pot, dear,” Indira said.
I slopped some into a mug (not really, because I was too scared of Indira to slop anything in her kitchen).Then I grabbed a stool at the counter next to Fox.
“Rough night?”they said.
I detected the arsenic-flavoring of faux sympathy, but I responded, “Bobby had to work an overnight, and I had a bad dream.”
Fox made an appropriately consoling noise.Then they said, “You have a line on your face from the cushions.”
Glaring at them, I took a few sips of my coffee.Slowly, the caffeine began to work its magic.When I felt more human, I said, “I’m worried about Keme.”
“What happened?”Indira asked.
“Did he hurt himself?”Fox asked.
“No,” I said.“He didn’t—”
“Was it one of your dumb games?”
“Okay, well, in the first place, snake attack isn’t a dumb game, and in the second place—”
“Is he sick?”
“No, he’s not—”
“Probably from you coughing on him.”
“When did I cough on him?What is happening right now?How did this turn into an episode of ‘get Dash’?”
Fox grinned.“Just staying in practice.”
Because discretion is the better part of valor, I chose not to engage with that.“Apparently someone’s been stealing his lunches.”
It took a second for Fox to process that.“What?”
“What do you mean?”Indira asked.“Did he get robbed?”
“No,” I said.“I mean, yes, but it wasn’t like a dark alley, stick-em-up, total helplessness while a river of humanity pours by you, only a few feet away, cold and uninterested and totally unwilling to help.”
“You were a virgin when Bobby met you, right?”Fox asked.
I tried to kick them, but they were surprisingly nimble in their velvet shoes.
“I mean,” I said, “someone’s been taking his lunch out of his locker.”
Indira slid the pan of cinnamon rolls into the oven.As she shut the oven door and straightened, she said, “That’s strange.”
