And toast in rectangles. I poke at the egg and try to get the slimy parts away from the yellow, but it just sticks to my fork. “Don’t play with your food,” says Dad. He leans against the counter, cradling his coffee mug in his hands. “How was your evening?” I was asleep on Miss Stella’s couch when he came home. I woke up but did not let on. So he rolled me ever so gently onto his shoulder and carried me down the hall. “It was okay.” “Just okay?” “It was okay.” I decide not to tell him about the sick-making snack. “Are you going to be late today?” “No. We finish striking the set today. I have just a couple of short runs to do, so I can be here by the time you get home from school.” Dad’s a limo driver. He works for the movies and drives all kinds of famous people around. He says that his job is just a lot of waiting around. Then more waiting around. It sounds very boring to me. He collects autographs in a little book with a blue leather cover that Mom gave me for my birthday.
