I’d never had to crawl across the hood of such a big-assed truck to issue a parking ticket before. I half-fell, half-jumped to the ground, and dusted the grime off the front of my uniform. “Give him another one, Miss Mattie,” Mr. Yousef insisted. The truck was parked directly in front of Mr. Yousef’s Paradise Garden Cafe, taking up three parking spots, which Mr. Yousef liked to think of as reserved for his customers. “Give him two more! He’s ruining my business!” He was right, of course; I should write two more tickets. But I wasn’t altogether certain that Mr. Yousef wasn’t trying to get another look up my culottes while I sprawled across the hood of that truck again. I’d barely started my shift, and I was already dirty and sweaty. Upstate New York is especially humid in July, and beneath my helmet it was like a sauna. “How long has the truck been parked here?” He flapped his apron; his chin jutted toward at me like a bulldog’s. “It was here when I arrived at six this morning.
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