His enthusiastic greeting usually put Noah in a good mood, no matter how bad a day it had been, but he didn’t think he’d be in a good mood ever again. “Hey, boy,” Noah said, patting his dog on the head and hanging his jacket on the hook in the hall. Shadows from the floor lamps danced on the walls as Noah stuck his head into the kitchen. Yost stood at the stove tending to something in their frying pan. He glanced at Noah. “It’s fried chicken.” “You know how to make fried chicken?” “There’s chow chow, corn, and yams with brown sugar. It’s almost ready.” Noah cocked an eyebrow. “You know how to make fried chicken?” “I didn’t make it.” “Kentucky Fried?” Yost gave Noah a smug glance. “Nae, homemade. But I promised the cook that I would keep it a secret because she said you wouldn’t want to eat it if you knew who cooked it.” Noah wanted to scowl. He opted for a disinterested frown. She just couldn’t resist interfering in his life, could she? “She’s right,”
