Chapter 3

Wrapping one arm around himself, Conner folded over and

groaned.

“That time of the month, eh?” Sylvia joked.

She rubbed the damp rag in his hair and said, “Tell you what,

Conner. Take a little break and I’ll see what I can do about

getting these plates out to your tables.” He nodded weakly, and

Sylvia added, “Go get some fresh air, you hear?”

Conner stood up carefully, afraid to trigger

another wave of pain, but except for a prickling of the wound at

his neck, nothing came. He took a deep breath, in, out, then held

it and waited. Someone filled a glass of water from the sink, which

Sylvia handed to him. As he drank it down, he thought maybe he

already felt a little better. It was just a spell or something—his

mother got them all the time. But slipping outside for a moment or

two during the hectic dinner rush sounded great. With a dubious

glance at his customers’ plates, Conner asked, “You sure you don’t

mind?”

“Go on,” Sylvia said again. She patted his