Page 42 of Again with Feeling

“Okay, but—seriously, Sergey? Body of hedgehog? What about body of, I don’t know, deer? Deer are graceful. Or even, um, body of fox, I guess.” Now I was getting into it. “Or body of meerkat!”

“Body of hedgehog,” Sergey said, mostly as though in confirmation to himself.

“I liked heart of bear better.”

“You heart of bear.”

“I don’t know—”

“You heart of bear.”

There it was again—that tone like I’d better get on board, or things were going to get ugly.

“I guess I’m heart of bear.”

He said more forcefully, “You heart of bear.”

“I’m heart of bear.”

More loudly again, “You heart of bear.”

“I’m heart of bear!” I shouted (but not until I’d started in on the second taco, which—wait for it—was deep-fried Baja fish).

“Yes. And you number one boy.”

“Iamnumber one boy!”

(Number one at eating tacos, anyway.)

Sergey nodded. He patted my head again. And then he reached behind his back and pulled out an enormous knife and said, “Now, you tell Sergey: who do this?”

“Okay,” LaLeesha said, “are we done here? Because I need my cook to stay out of prison.”

“Uh, yeah. Thank you, Sergey. That was—you didn’t have to do that.”

He nodded, murmured, “Number one boy,” apparently in approval, and let LaLeesha lead him back into the truck.

I sat on the parking stop and finished my tacos. (The third one was street corn chicken, which was incredible.) I felt…better. I mean, it was hard not to take thebody of hedgehogthing personally, but I was going to assume it had been meant in the same spirit as the rest of Sergey’s comments. Like, maybe I was good at protecting myself? (Hold your laughter, please.) Plus it was hard not to have your spirits lifted after having people take care of you—the yelling call-and-response thing had been weirdly rousing, and the tacos hadn’t hurt either. I didn’t let myself think about Bobby and Kiefer. I just sat there, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the sounds of the waves and happy voices, and this private haven that gave me a few minutes of peace away from all the peopling.

Two Girls and a Scoop (hands down, the best ice cream truck in Hastings Rock) was starting to call my name when my phone vibrated. Which, I guess, was someoneliterallycalling me.

I didn’t recognize the number, but I thought I had an idea this time what to expect.

“This call is originating at the Oregon State Penitentiary from,” said a prerecorded voice. And then Vivienne said her name.

I accepted the call and said hello.

“I’d like an update,” Vivienne said. “How is the investigation progressing?”

“Not well.”

Her silence only lasted a beat. “What does that mean?”

“It means—” I stood and started down the boardwalk, moving away from the crowds and the rumbling generators. “—it’s hard to conduct an effective investigation when the client lies to me.”

“What in the world are you talking about? When did I lie to you?”

“Withholding information, Vivienne. That’s lying by omission.”

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