I ordered three chicken sandwiches (one for me, two just in case), curly fries, onion rings, and a strawberry shake. Cal ordered a side salad and fried zucchini.

“Okay, I get the no beef thing. But are you going vegetarian on me now?” I asked, digging into my greasy bag.

“I don’t trust their chicken.”

“What do you think they put in it?”

“It’s not what they put in it,” he said, pulling back into traffic, “it’s the chickens themselves.”

I knew I was going to regret asking this, but…“What’s wrong with the chickens?”

His eyes went from my bag to me. “You really want to know?”

No. “Yes.”

He shrugged. “Okay. For starters, fast-food places have a very small profit margin on each item. So, they want the cheapest chickens out there. They go for the older ones, the sickly ones, the ones no respectable farmer will eat himself. You know what kind of chickens are in that patty?”

I looked down at my sandwich. “Yummy ones?”

“Poultry plants take the diseased chickens, cut out the infected parts, and chop up the rest for use in processed chicken products like nuggets and patties.”

“Infected?” My appetite was quickly waning.

“Then there’s the antibiotics. Chickens are routinely given these drugs in a vain attempt to keep them healthy, but guess where the drugs go? They’re stored in the chicken’s fat cells. When we eat the meat, we get a healthy dose of those drugs ourselves. Or, unhealthy, as the case may be.”

I slurped my shake. “That’s gross.”

“That’s why I don’t eat fast-food chicken. Only organic.”

I looked down into my bag. Maybe the enchiladas wouldn’t be so bad.

Half an hour later we pulled into the driveway of Cal’s place. The second I walked in, the scent of chilies and limes hit me square in the face, waking up my growling stomach once again.

“I’ve got some work to finish up,” Cal said, sinking onto the sofa in the living room and dropping a stack of files onto the coffee table. Which was fine with me. I had a one-track mind—or stomach, as the case may be. I followed my nose into the kitchen where Millie and Aunt Sue were standing at the oven, a half empty pitcher of margaritas in front of them as they giggled at some private joke.

“Smells good in here,” I said.

“Oh, Tina, you’re back. How was your day, dear?” Aunt Sue asked me.

“Good.” I peeked in the oven. So far, nothing was charcoal colored. A good sign. “Yours?”

“Well, your aunt Millie and I spent the day going through Hattie’s things.”

I felt that familiar lump of guilt well up in my throat again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”