Since I have some extra cash—thank you, sexy mass murderer—I stop by a food truck run by one of the few men I know who’s managed to work himself off the street. His name is Lionel Manchkin, and he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. When I get to the front of the line, Lionel gives me an impassive once over before calling out to the cook behind him. “Manchkin Special!” He shakes his head at me. “Still looking for a job?” I nod and shrug and hand over five dollars. He hands me back two dollars and two quarters. “I heard about the diner. They said there were two survivors.” I nod again,
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