I stared.
Ellie smiled.
“This is Rosa.”
“Owner of the café, owner of this truck, and owner of information people think I don’t have,” Rosa said.
“I had one sandwich.”
“You wore most of it.”
“That feels like private medical information.”
Rosa pointed at Ellie.
“She told me.”
“Betrayal,” I said.
Ellie looked unrepentant.
“Community safety.”
Rosa handed us two paper menus.
“Sit. I’ll bring food.”
“We haven’t ordered,” I said.
“You’re with Ellie. You’re getting fritters, grouper, fries, and pie.”
“What if I’m allergic to grouper?”
Rosa narrowed her eyes.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then don’t create problems.”
She disappeared into the truck.
I looked at Ellie.
“I see where you get it.”
“Rosa has been feeding me since I moved here.”
“Does she let anyone order?”
“Sometimes children. If they seem responsible.”
We carried our drinks to a low wall facing the beach and sat close enough that our knees touched whenever one of us shifted.
The sky was turning peach above the water. A warm breeze moved through the palms, carrying salt, frying batter, and the steel-drum player’s increasingly personal attack on rhythm.
“You survived Rachel?” Ellie asked.
