Page 60 of Backpacking through Bedlam

They were pretty straightforward, generic, even: pepperoni, mushroom, plain cheese, and an “everything” pizza that was missing at least fifteen toppings I could think of off the top of my head. She was still staring at them like they were the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.

The clerk looked at us, disinterested. “What can I get you?”

“How many slices in a large pizza?”

“Eight.”

I glanced at Sally. She was still staring at the pizza slices.

“Can I get a large pizza box with two slices of each kind you have in the case right now?”

The clerk shrugged, then nodded. He was a clerk at a dollar-slice place in Manhattan. He’d heard way stranger requests. “I’ll have to charge you for a large pie.”

Despite the name of the store, the slices were two-fifty each, rather than a dollar, although a sign on the case indicated that today’s dollar slice was ham and pineapple—maybe explaining why that flavor was conspicuously absent. “That’s fine. How much?”

“Twenty-two.”

A two-dollar surcharge for a large pizza box seemed like a small price to pay. I fished twenty-five dollars out of my pocket and dropped it on the counter between us. “That sounds great.”

He pulled a box from under the counter and began sliding slices deftly into it, creating a patchwork pizza in less time than it would have taken me to open the case. “You want me to heat this up for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” Sally shot me a wounded look. I was keeping her away from the pizza. I patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. “This way it’s nice and hot when you get it. I saw a drugstore back the way we came. We can stop and get you some Lactaid before you eat your body weight in cheese.”

The clerk laughed, sliding our boxed pizza into an open oven that must have been more electric than contains-actual-fire. “You want a soda or anything with that?”

“No, just the pizza will be fine.”

“Here you go.” He pulled the pizza out of the oven, put the box on the counter, and pushed it toward us. “Have a nice day.”

I handed the box to Sally before she could grab it and start cackling. “You, too.”

Outside on the street, Sally glared at the closed box. “Lactaid is good for not getting horrible stomachaches and gas.”

“Yes,” I agreed, starting back toward the Nest.

“But not having it yet is bad for being able to eat pizza.”

“If it’s safe for us to go back inside right now, we can eat in our room. If it’s not, we’ll find a park or something and you can eat outside. This is New York. They have benches.” Or they used to, anyway. It had been a few years since I’d been for a visit. My work didn’t usually take me to big human cities.

The question of whether benches still existed kept me occupied as we walked, until we pulled up level with the drug store I’d seen before. “Can I wait out here?” asked Sally.

“Why?”

“Because I’m holding a whole-ass pizza, and I’d rather avoid jostling it more than I have to?”

I considered this, and decided Sally probably wasn’t in any danger of attracting Covenant attention by standing outside a CVS for five minutes in broad daylight. This was New York. People loitered here all the time. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

The drugstore was laid out the way drugstores have been for my entire lifetime, and finding Sally’s Lactaid wasn’t hard. I stopped off at the large cooler, snagging three bottles of cold Coca-Cola, then got into line to check out.

Things cost more than I was used to. Just those four items took more of my remaining cash than I liked, and I made a silent note to get more when I could, taking my paper sack from the clerk and heading back out of the store to the sidewalk.

Where Sally was not.

I blinked, very slowly, then turned in a slow circle.

She was gone.

Fourteen