While we waited, parked in the shadows, he inhaled the veggies and peeled the fried layer off the chicken before munching down. “Heathern,” I accused in my best Appalachian mountain accent, lifting the skin from the box he’d tossed it in. “I’ll rescue the poor, cast-aside crispy bits. Yes, my precious, I’ll eat you,” I cooed to the fried flesh. Biting down.
