Tim smiled and waited for Macy to enter first. Her eye roll was so familiar that he almost reached out to “beep” her nose, but she was gone inside before he had the chance.
At five a.m. in mid-July, French Pete’s was about a quarter full. There was no factory or anything in town, it was simply summer near the Arctic Circle and a lot of folks were up. They sat in groups of two and three and were mostly quiet over coffee. Carl had never been a big believer in music and the local radio station wouldn’t be on the air for a couple of hours, assuming Janice was still running it.
Tim breathed in deep. The air was thick with deer sausage, warm syrup, and toad-in-a-hole—a single egg fried in a hole torn in the middle of a slice of toast. Carl made it with the good dark bread. Herb Maxwell came in
