Page 43 of Saving Bonnie

“But no turkey breast,” I point out.

“Precisely why I asked if you called the delivery service,” she replies with a click of her tongue.

Manny shrugs. “We can use chicken.” He heads off to pull chicken breast from the fridge.”

“They’ll live.” She sets a hand on her hip. “Most of these people are ordering salads to make themselves feel better, not because they actually want something healthy.”

Taking a deep breath, I prepare to remind her we can’t upset the budget and have us risk running short on our staples.

“Before you start.” She raises a hand, stopping me before I can utter a word. “These salads have almost twice your regular profit margin.”

Okay. That’s enough to rob me of every argument.

“You need to expand the menu a little. It’s time.”

“We’ve had these items ever since I can remember,” I insist.

“Yes. When Mom put this together, people weren’t looking at diets and portions,” she explains.

“Hey,” Cappy’s voice rings out from the dining room. “Anyone coming to take our order?”

Mom rolls her eyes.

“We want some of these new tacos.”

“He does know these are just smaller versions of our regular tacos, right?” I ask, needing to verify.

“Yes.” Mom waves, dismissing my concern as she heads to the front. “It’s his way of telling everyone we have something new.” She pauses at the doorway. “Oh, the guys at Bridge I want to name the next Monster Taco since Bridge II got to do the first one.”

“We don’t have a naming competition,” I remind him.

She shrugs. “Theguisadotaco is now the Wolfman.” With that, she goes through the door, heading to Cappy.

“Everyone wants to make changes,” I say to no one in particular.

Manny turns, tongs in hand. “I want the hot dogs in salsa to be called the Dracula.”

I throw my hands up in defeat.

*****

Tino

Robalocuts the engine, letting the rubber raft drift onto the bank of the Rio Grande with a light thud. He’s one of the border’s most prolific coyotes, having swum across the river enough times to earn himself the nickname.

“Vamonos.” The low command gets the men moving, exiting both rafts under the cover of night. I’m on the floor, my clothes blending into the darkness as a dozen men make their way past the U.S. border.

I keep my breathing shallow, biding my time as I concentrate on the sounds above the lap of water against the raft. The group is stomping through the undergrowth, breaking branches, warning any creatures of the night they’re coming through.

Snippets of their conversation filter back on the warm summer breeze. Someone curses, stumbling over a large rock, a complaint about a snagged shirt, and the warning to watch for snakes, followed by another curse.

Where the hell are you?The timing is off. I frown, checking the need to sit up and assess the situation. My information has never been wrong before. So, what gives? The guys have made enough noise they’d be heard all the way to El Paso.

Another minute goes by as they drift farther away, chiding each other, as if they’re headed to a soccer game.

“Alto,” a man’s voice rings out, telling them to stop. “U.S. Border Patrol.”

There we go. I tilt my head, concentrating on what’s being said.

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