Home didn’t come anywhere close to describing the apartment where she’d been eating and sleeping for the past eight months.

“I think I’ll eat them here.” She surveyed the benches along the wharf. All but the farthest one were occupied, and the hike would be too taxing in her current state of recuperation. Her spirits deflated. “Or not, unless someone leaves before my order is ready.”

“You could try the park.” Charley flipped the fish on the grill.

If the benches were full, the picnic table in the gazebo that graced the tiny park behind the stand wasn’t likely available. That was prime veg-out property.

“I suppose I can check.” Worst case, she could eat on the small front porch of her unit. Anywhere outside would be an improvement over her minuscule kitchen.

“Couldn’t hurt.” Charley set the tortillas on the grill and picked up the bottle of his special sauce. “You want to pay me for these on your next visit? It may be tricky to get to your wallet while you’re juggling those crutches.”

“I came prepared.” She balanced one crutch against the side of the stand, pulled several bills from the pocket of her slacks, and laid them on the counter. “I have the tab memorized—but it would be easier if you took credit cards.” She tipped her head toward the “cash only” sign taped inside the serving window.

He began assembling the tacos and wrapping them in white paper. “Would it?”

“Of course. Paying with plastic is quick and less messy.”

“Also less transparent—and less immediate. Plastic gets a host of people into trouble. Handing over cold, hard cash helps shoppers appreciate the value of what they’re buying—or the lack of value. If you ask me, there’s too much plastic in the world already . . . in merchandise and in people.” He slid the tacos into a bag, along with a bottle of water.

“I didn’t pay for the water, Charley.”

“On the house. You’ll need it to wash down the tacos if you end up staying on the wharf to eat.”

“I doubt there’s a spot in the park.”

“You never know.” He lifted the bag. “Can you manage this?”

“Yes.” She took it, crimped the top in her fingers, and repositioned her crutch. “Thanks for lunch—and your thoughts on plastic.”

“My nugget of wisdom for the day.” He gave her another one of his radiant smiles. “I believe in authenticity—in art, in food, in relationships. Being real can make you vulnerable, but the rewards are great.” After holding her glance for a moment, he indicated an approaching family group. “More customers in search of a taco fix. Enjoy your lunch, Beth.”

As the newcomers took her place at the counter, she navigated to the end of the truck, turned the corner—and jolted to a stop.

The picnic table was occupied, as she’d expected.