“I won’t be able to eat it. I’m too nervous,” she said. He lifted the edges of the egg with a spatula. “You have to eat, Tiny. Look at you.” “What’s wrong with me?” “Nothing’s wrong with you. But you’re not carrying an extra ounce.” “I can’t eat when I’m anxious.” Her voice was small and determined, a girl working up her nerve. She stood near the darkened windows in a neat powder-blue suit. As outfits went, it hardly seemed like the kind you wore to run away into a new life. The matching powder-blue hat was perched on top of her suitcase, next to the door. “Well, eat this.” He slid the omelet onto a plate and poured a glass of milk. “Got to be up early tomorrow. You’ll need it.” She sank into the sofa and accepted the plate. He set the milk on the lamp table next to her. “Thank you,” she said, without looking at him.
