Chapter 8: Hands to Yourself

On the thirtieth day, Jonas came to dinner.

I still hadn't stopped thinking about the cafe, and how Wyatt found Carissa four minutes after her phone buzzed.

Our lawyer had the answer by then. Every assistant at Haldorsen Freight carried a company phone, and the company tracked each one.

He knew where Carissa was at all times. I had checked my own phone and Poppy's bag twice for the same thing and found nothing.

Marit had invited Jonas herself.

She had called St. Anne's, asked for the medical director by name, and told him hotdish was at six.

"She didn't say it as a question," he told me at the door.

"She never does."

He was holding a bakery box in both hands. His shirt was freshly ironed.

Poppy saw him from the hallway and screamed.

"Doctor Jonas!"

She hit his knees at a run. He crouched and caught her, and the bakery box tilted dangerously.

"I brought you a donut," he said gravely. "It has sprinkles. It's a medical necessity."

"What's a necessity?"

"Something you can't skip."

She took the box from him with both hands and carried it to the kitchen.

Dinner was tater tot hotdish, green beans from a can, and Marit's lemon bars.

Jonas ate two helpings and said it was the best thing he had eaten in a year.

Marit looked at him over her glasses and did not say whether she believed him.

"You eat in the hospital cafeteria," she said.

"Most nights."

"That's not eating. That's refueling."

"I'll be honest, ma'am, the lemon bars are doing something to my judgment."

Marit pressed her lips together, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.

Poppy had drawn a picture. She held it up between bites.

"That's Mama. That's Doctor Jonas. That's the donut."

The donut was the size of a house.

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