He gave me a look that said he could see my cash balance on the sleeve of my shirt. He pulled a bulging wallet from his back pocket and peeled out a ten-dollar bill. He scowled at the plate of half-eaten french fries, the puddle of grease, the smear of ketchup. “No more fries,” he said to Kathryn. “I thought your mother talked to you about that.” Kathryn flushed, pulled the hem of her tight top down to meet her jeans, and snatched the bill from her father’s hand. A how-dare-you, well-you-had-it-coming look passed between them.
