Hitchens and McGrath hunkered down at the counter while John Connelly, Phil Carroll and Pat Ryder sat at a fourtop in the center. A few other faces she knew enough to nod a polite hello to. Tom, slinging hash over the grill. Travis slumped on the benchseat across the booth from her. Nose buried in a dog-eared graphic novel. He hadn’t said a word since they left the house. “What’cha reading?” He held up the book in response. An ominous figure in a skull T-shirt, automatic pistols filling both hands. The Punisher. “Mmm,” she said. “Is it good?” Travis shrugged and kept reading. The mysterious bruise on his cheek had lost some of its purpling. He’d been withdrawn and sullen for the last two days, grunting that he was fine when she asked if he was feeling okay. She left it at that, knowing he’d withdraw further if pressed. The teenage years, she told herself. All moodiness and sullen silences. “You seem awfully quiet these days.” She couldn’t help herself. It was like trying to keep your hands in your pockets while someone drowned.
What do You think about Killing Down The Roman Line?
