Night Shifters (101 page)

His dad grinned. “Noah’s boy.”

“We don’t eat people,” Tom said. “I thought we’d established that.”

“No, no. See, you have all the diner slang in the menu, so I went and studied it, on-line. ‘Noah’s boy’ is ham. You know. Ham. In the Bible.”

Kyrie giggled, and Tom gave her an indulgent smile. “Um . . . I don’t think we have that in the menu, but sure. I’ll make it. One Noah’s boy, coming up. And then I’ll discuss your pay and hours, Laura.”

A look over his shoulder showed him that Laura was made of uncommonly resilient stuff. She was smiling a little and had sat down at the booth.

The front door tinkled, to let in the dinner rush hour, and Kyrie put her apron on, ready to go attend to the tables.

The Poet came in and sat at his table, with his notebook. Tom wondered if the Poet truly was a member of the Rodent Liberation Front, and, if so, if he was the squirrel that shifted to the size of a German shepherd and smoked cigarettes. Anything was possible, he guessed. But he hoped the Rodent Liberation Front would be still now for a while, and let them have at least a little peace.

Kyrie was still behind the counter. Before going back out, she touched his shoulder with her warm hand. It wasn’t even a public display of affection. But it was enough.

And The George’s neon signs shone softly, while a fresh snowfall started—big, fluffy flakes, blanketing Goldport in quietness and cold.