Page 16 of York

CHAPTER FIVE

Runa

I’d packed sandwiches with what was left of our lunch meat, and hoped Denali wouldn’t ask to stop at one of the several restaurants in the park.

She didn’t usually ask for things like that, but the scents were wafting through the air, making my stomach rumble, so I was sure hers was too.

To her credit, she didn’t ask.

But York offered, and how thrilled she’d been had made my heart sink a little. Because I couldn’t offer her that. Because I couldn’t treat her to all the things she deserved to experience.

Sure, York buying our tickets had saved me a little cash, but what I had left would have to go to essentials. Like more motel room rentals. Food. Some new shoes for Denny.

“Runa?” York called, making me jolt out of my thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“What do you want, Mama?” Denali, still on York’s shoulders, asked.

“Oh, right. The veggie burger sounds good. Do you know what you want?”

“York got me chicken nuggets.”

“Oh, good.”

“And fries.”

“Even better.”

“And number sauce.”

“What’s number sauce?” I asked.

“305 sauce,” York explained after ordering my burger. “We don’t know what it is, but we’re going to give it a try.”

“Denny is really good at trying new things, right, munchkin?” I asked as we made our way over to a table.

“Mommy says I have to try. I don’t have to like it, but I have to try.”

“That’s good. Anything you don’t like?”

“Spinach,” Denali said, face twisting up. “And mushrooms.”

“But she loves broccoli, carrots, asparagus, and salad greens,” I said, feeling oddly like I needed to defend her food tastes. Even if, objectively, she probably ate better than most since I couldn’t afford all the junk food I’m sure she would love.

“All with dip?” York asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Now that he reopened the dip can of worms, it was all Denali wanted to talk about while we ate our food, even going so far as to express sadness that the zoo animals couldn’t have sauce with their food.

York was surprisingly good with her. It helped that Denny was chatty and held up most of the conversation. But York was getting the hang of conversation with his daughter—adding little factoids she ate up, agreeing with her statements, offering his own very simplified thoughts.

Lunch was over before we knew it, and all three of us tensed a bit, not sure what to do, what to say as we walked out of the cafe.

Then, there it was.

The gift shop.