I look back over at Fletcher’s plate. There’s so much food left. Mine is missing a mere three bites, and my stomach growls only for more mushrooms. I wonder if I could stop somewhere on the way home, grab the ingredients for a pathetic homemade version of his plate, and satisfy the craving just enough to not gnaw off my own arm. Fletcher must recognize my deep longing, because he sighs and reaches across me for my plate, sliding it over to him. “Wait—” He then slides his own plate to the empty spot in front of me. Steam wafts up from the dish to my nose and it smells like duck ragu, sauteed
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