The shelter director took in the kitchen situation. “Will lunch be ready on time?”
The problem was Elspath. She stood beside a metal bowel swimming with chicken livers. With a spatula, Elspath turned onions in butter for a pâtè. Next to the skillet, a saucepan boiled.
The woman at the front of the line, her wrinkled face rivaling Elspath’s for age not wisdom, always had the same question. “When will my daughter visit?” She offered up a liver.
Slimey, it roiled in broth. Elspath said, “Remember, she called.”
The woman’s face brightened. “Yes.”
Elspath said. “She’ll be here for lunch.”