Lane bit her lip. Her willpower seemed to melt when it came to Noah. “Fifteen minutes—if you eat all your green beans and two more bites of your mashed potatoes.”

Noah sighed and then looked at his plate. With a determined expression, he scooped up the first bite and ate it.

“I’d have negotiated for twenty minutes.”

“Hush now, Harley.” Dottie grinned before giving Lane a playful wink.

“Can I get you two more sweet tea?” Lane went to the counter and lifted a pitcher.

“We’re good. This was delicious as always, Lane.” Harley lifted his fork and pointed it at Noah. “And if he doesn’t want his, I’ll take it.”

“Oh, he’ll eat his if he wants to play with his—” What was the name of that dinosaur? “Well, he’ll eat if he wants to play with his toys. Nonnegotiable—”

The screen door at the back of the café slapped open, silencing the room and jerking everyone’s attention to the lone figure that entered. Miguel.

“Hi, Miguel!” Lane started for him but stopped short at the sight of his hands.

“Miguel, what happened?” Lane reached for his hands. Deep red gashes were etched into his palms. Most of them were scabbed over, but a few oozed bright red. He drew them back. “You’re hurt.”

Ms. Byrdie appeared from the kitchen, concern in her eyes.

Miguel’s dark eyes darted around the room. “I-I just . . .”

“Momma?” Noah’s voice sounded tiny.

Lane was unable to take her eyes off the slices in his palms. “You need to go to the hospital, Miguel.”

“Momma, is he hurt?”

“No. I sh-should go.” His voice was scratchy and low. “Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t have come h-here.”

“Wait.” Lane rested her hand on his shoulder, but Miguel jerked away from her touch. “Let me get you something to eat before you go.”

“Noah, why don’t you come help me make a plate for Mister Miguel?” Ms. Byrdie took Noah’s hand and led him to the counter.

Miguel shifted but remained silent. Lane hustled back to the counter. Where had he been? What had happened to his hands? They needed to be cleaned with antibiotics, maybe even stitched up, but if a meal was all he’d wait for, then that’s what she’d offer him. She grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it with ice and tea.

“Is he okay?” Ms. Byrdie looked up from the to-go container she was filling with food. Noah was sitting at a stool near the counter, concentrating on a coloring book of dinosaurs.

Lane put a lid on the cup. “His hands look like they’ve been put through a slicer.”

“Where’d he go?” Dottie asked.

The hallway where Miguel had stood seconds ago was empty. Harley stood and walked down the hall toward the back door.

“Wha—he was just here.” What was going on? “His hands. He needs to go to the hospital.”