“Um, Alexis, we have to go.” Mrs. Tenn grabbed her daughter’s hand and tugged so hard, Alexis slipped from her flip-flop.

“Mom! You said we could stay for lunch!” she whined.

“We can’t. I forgot.” The mother bent down and snatched her daughter’s shoe, then continued yanking her through the restaurant with one bare foot.

Max looked at Vera, her eyes focused on the sugar packets so as not to reveal what she was thinking (though he had a pretty good guess).

“Alexis!” Chloe yelled with the melodramatic flair of a lover in an old movie.

Max grabbed his sister’s hand, stopping Chloe from darting after a mom convinced a tantrum-throwing seven-year-old was easier to deal with than Vera Martinez.

“It’s okay, we’ll have lunch together.” He tried to make it sound like a treat when really, it was their normal routine.

Vera continued organizing the sugar container, lining pinks, yellows, and whites together as if the task were vital. What would he be teaching his sister if he let someone treat her like that?

“Chloe, this is my friend Vera,” he said.

Vera’s eyes sprang up.

“Hi.” Chloe’s voice held the choked tone of a kid who just lost her best friend—at least for the afternoon.

“I like your shirt.” Vera pointed to Chloe’s teal T-shirt featuring a cat in sunglasses. “You like cats?”

“Duh.” Chloe cocked her hip. “My mom said I can get one when I turn ten. She and my dad had one before I was born.”

Max nodded. “Yeah, Lupi. We called her The Hisser. She died when I was five.”

“Sorry.” Vera’s face looked sympathetic, for a mean-as-shit cat.

Actually, the day the cat died was the only time Max had ever seen his father cry. Until then, he hadn’t known parents could do that.

His dad had spent most of the day cracking jokes. As always.

Hey, Maxie-boy! What did one plate say to the otha? Lunch is on me!

He was full of the worst dad jokes in the world, but man, his laugh—it reverberated through the entire restaurant. Sometimes Max swore he could still hear it. But then that day, his mom showed up with blotchy cheeks and glassy eyes, and Max stopped coloring on his paper menu. She whispered something and Dad removed his Mets cap, dropping his chin to his chest, tears streaking his plump, stubbly cheeks.

It was Max’s first experience with death, the finality of it. He had no idea that just a few years later, grief would shape his entire world. And that seven years after that, he’d be running his father’s restaurant.

It was a bait-and-tackle shop when his parents bought it, and they turned it into the number one restaurant in Roaring Creek. Busboys, drivers, and kitchen staff said it was the best job they’d ever had. It was why they still worked here, because they could feel the ghost of Tony Oliver coating every speck of dust in the place.

Max turned to Vera, about to ask her to stay for lunch, when the rumble of a busted muffler puttered in the parking lot. A country tune drifted inside. Then he heard the familiar laughs.