“You really don’t want to do this, do you?”
Nathan grimaced to himself and shrugged, even though Taylor couldn’t see him.
“You’re cooking, you get to pick.”
“I don’t so much call this cooking,” Taylor replied from the kitchen, accompanied with the sound of spitting fat. “It’s jus’ chicken.”
“Mrs Riley used to make the best fried chicken. There weren’t ever nothin’ better to do on a Sunday than turn up at Four Corners to eat lunch, then hang out all afternoon in the truck by the creek.” Once