Genevieve stood, sweating, and watched the guy make Indian tacos. After every third or fourth taco, he’d pause, pop a zit, and then sniff his fingertips. That pretty much captured it, Genevieve’s definition of hell: stuck baby-sitting your little sister at the Oklahoma State Fair, a thousand degrees in the shade, the funk of cow shit fuming out from the livestock pens so thick you could taste it, and the Indian taco guy popping zits like they were going out of style.
