He wore a black apron over his clothes with the words This Guy Rubs His Own Meat in large white Comic Sans lettering. I huffed an involuntary laugh, momentarily forgetting what I’d been about to ask him. “What are you wearing?” He looked down at himself, then back at me. “It’s an apron.” “Yes, I can see it’s an apron, but . . .” I managed to convert the giggles threatening to escape me into a cough, but barely. “Where did you get it?” “Amazon.” He set his wooden spoon down on the stove and smiled at me, clearly proud of himself. I made a mental note not to let Frederick navigate Amazon on my
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