Henry slogs through the next two hours as through the La Brea Time Pits. Every time he looks at the clock he’d swear it’s added five minutes to the afternoon. It doesn’t help that Zack doesn’t budge. He doesn’t get up to go to the bathroom or refill his root beer or browse the bookstore. He sits and watches Henry as if instead of doling out cheeseburgers and gravy fries he was go-go dancing in glow-in-the-dark underwear on top of the counter. Henry knows that anyone who so much as glances in Zack’s direction will see the naked Henry gyrating through his mind’s eye as clearly as if it was being broadcast on the big screen over by the Starbucks instead of CTV News, but nobody pays him any attention. Nobody but Henry, whose world has nothing in it but the bulldog.
At four thirty, when he’s n
