Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
We all sat in a circle around the campfire and passed the metal mug around, sipping. We made sure to save some for Colton and Cal, who were on guard duty, and the injured Dr. Guzman, who we were trying to move as little as possible. That meant we only got a few mouthfuls each, but it was enough for the smell and the taste to trigger that coffee high. It was about more than just the caffeine. It was about having a moment of luxury, far from home. And sharing it made our ragtag bunch feel like even more of a team.
It was going to be hard, leaving them.
We packed up, Colton and Cal rejoined us and we set off, with Danny and me carrying Dr. Guzman on the makeshift stretcher. It was only a mile to the bridge but most of it was through thick forest. There was no path and Colton had to go in front, hacking through the dense undergrowth with a machete. He muttered as he worked, swinging the machete every few words.
“When I get home…I’m gonna go to Kansas City and get myself the biggest plate of ribs…you’ve ever seen. All sticky with sauce…and a whole plate of burnt ends…” He panted. “And beer. A lot of beer.”
“Steak,” said JD thoughtfully. “A good thick piece of beef, with gravy, and a pile of mashed potatoes. Gotta be proper mashed potatoes, cooked in chicken broth and then mashed with cream cheese and buttermilk.” He inhaled as if he could smell them.
“There’s this ice cream,” said Olivia, “called Gingerly Does It. It’s chocolate, but with swirls of caramel. The caramel stays solid until you put it in your mouth, then it melts on your tongue. And there are these nuggets of gingerbread mixed in, really sticky and moist and they smell like Christmas. I’m going to buy an entire tub of that and eat it with a huge mug of coffee.”
She squeezed my hand in a way that said two spoons. And something about that, the simple romance of it, just hit me deadcenter in the chest.
“My wife’s cooking,” said Dr. Guzman from the stretcher.
“Is she a good cook?” asked Olivia.
“Terrible,” said Dr. Guzman. “But I want to eat it anyway.”
Olivia patted his shoulder. “We’ll get you back to her.”
Marcos spoke up. “There’s this breakfast place in Quito that does the best llapingachos. They’re little fried potato omelets stuffed with cheese. You get a few of those, a fried egg, some avocado and meat and a little peanut sauce…” He looked at Olivia and his expression turned sad. It must have been something he had planned for her, before I showed up. Then he rallied and he spoke to Olivia but looked at me. “You make sure you try them, sometime,” he said. Make sure she does, his eyes demanded.
I nodded. I would. Then I turned to Cal, who was watching our right. “What about you? Some home cooked stew, made with berries and some deer you shot?”
Cal rubbed at his beard, thinking. “I do like venison. But I ate a lot of it, while I was in the woods.” He went quiet for a while, long enough that with anyone else, you’d start to wonder if the conversation was over. But I was used to Cal’s quietness now. Eventually, he said, “You know what I really want? A pizza. A really big, thick pizza, with a lot of pepperoni and melted cheese that I can share with Bethany. And I want to be able to just pick up the phone and order it and have some guy bring it to my door. And a steak for Rufus.” He looked sad for a moment: you could feel how much the poor guy missed his girl and his dog. “What about you?”
I’d been thinking about it ever since I’d gone to prison, dreaming of that first meal as a free man. “Teritas Pescado,” I said. “It’s fish: red snapper, or maybe marlin, sliced into thin strips and marinated with lime juice, onions and chilis. You load some of that on a tortilla chip, with a glass of crisp chenin blanc from the Loire, maybe a ten-year-old Stéphane Bernaudeau Les Terres Blanches…” I closed my eyes for a second, imagining Olivia and I sitting on a yacht, just off the coast of Mexico, a refreshing sea breeze caressing us as a waiter refilled our glasses.
“A curry,” said Danny. “No, two curries: a lamb pasanda: golden, creamy, thick with coconut and almonds. And a chicken jalfrezi: light, spicy, heavy on the onions. And a naan this big.” He held out his hands to indicate a naan bread the size of a bathtub. “And a bottomless pint of lager.”
Colton gave a final hack of the machete and stopped, sweating and panting. “You’ll get it,” he managed. “We’re through.”