A half hour later they were sitting in a booth in a nondescript diner, the menu equally as uninspiring. When they entered, Rory decided to test out a pet theory. He suggested they sit at a table in the center of the room but Zane quietly herded him into a booth at the back and sat next to him rather than opposite. Rory smiled to himself, Zane had passed the test.
“What are you in the mood for? My treat,” Zane said.
“You paid for breakfast,” Rory told him.
“I eat more than you. So, what do you want?”
Rory took a look at the specials board but didn’t relish the idea of chicken fried steak or spaghetti—not again—so he looked back at the menu, flipped it over, and said he’d have the chicken Caesar salad. “What will you have? And it’s my treat.”
Zane frowned and studied the menu. “A regula
