My stomach rumbled, too, and I remembered that I had missed my lunch in all the excitement. This would never do; I needed to keep up my strength. My naturally high metabolism needed constant attention: no diet for Dexter. But I had to depend on Deborah for a ride, and I had the feeling, just a hunch, that she would not be sympathetic about any mention of eating at the moment. I looked at her again. She was cradling the old lady, Mrs. Medina, who had apparently given up retching and was concentrating on sobbing.

I sighed and walked to the car through the rain. I didn’t really mind getting wet. It looked like I was going to have a long wait to dry off.

It was indeed a long wait, well over two hours. I sat in the car and listened to the radio and tried to picture, bite by bite, what it was like to eat a medianoche sandwich: the crackle of the bread crust, so crisp and toasty it scratches the inside of your mouth as you bite down. Then the first taste of mustard, followed by the soothing cheese and the salt of the meat. Next bite—a piece of pickle. Chew it all up; let the flavors mingle. Swallow. Take a big sip of Iron Beer (pronounced Ee-roan Bay-er, and it’s a soda). Sigh. Sheer bliss. I would rather eat than do anything else except play with the Passenger. It’s a true miracle of genetics that I am not fat.

I was on my third imaginary sandwich when Deborah finally came back to the car. She slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and just sat there, staring ahead through the rain-splattered windshield. And I knew it wasn’t the best thing I could have said, but I couldn’t help myself. You look beat, Deb. How about lunch?

She shook her head but didn’t say anything.

Maybe a nice sandwich. Or a fruit salad—get your blood sugar back up? You’ll feel so much better.

Now she looked at me, but it was not a look that showed any real promise of lunch at any time in the near future. This is why I wanted to be a cop, she said.

The fruit salad?

That thing in there— she said, and then turned to look out the windshield again. I want to nail that—that, whatever it is that could do that to a human being. I want it so bad I can taste it.

Does it taste like a sandwich, Deborah? Because—

She smacked the heels of her palms onto the rim of the steering wheel, hard. Then she did it again. GodDAMN it, she said. God-fucking-DAMN it!