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Fried rice. Lo mein. Sesame chicken. Beef and broccoli. Dumplings. Egg rolls. Crab rangoon. Green beans. Potatoes prepared in a way that seemed only loosely connected to Chinese cuisine. Pizza had been included for children and adults unwilling to admit they had come to a Chinese buffet for pizza.

Sloane paused before the crab rangoon. “How many of these can I take without making it weird?”

“Honestly? If the plate isn’t tilting under the weight, you aren’t trying hard enough,” I said.

Grinning, she transferred six of them to her plate. “Don’t challenge me, Hudson. I have excellent balance.”

I built my first plate with enough food to make hers look restrained.

She looked at it when we sat down. “Is that the first course or your entire evening?”

“First.”

Sloane leaned in and pointed to my plate. “But you have three entrées.”

“Enhanced metabolism.”

She pointed her fork at me. “You can’t use wolf biology to intimidate me during dinner.”

“I’m answering your question.”

She laughed. “Well, now I’m calculating whether the buffet is about to regret admitting you.”

We ate slowly, talking about easy subjects. Her client had finally approved the neighborhood map after requesting that the fictional fountain become larger and more historically significant.

“What does historically significant mean for an object that doesn’t exist?” I asked.

“She wanted a plaque.”

“What did it say?”

“Established 1923.”

“Was the neighborhood established in 1923?”

“No.”

“Did you tell her?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“She said the date ‘gave off the right vibe.’”

I swallowed a sip of soda. “Well, that logic is hard to argue with.”

She asked about my week, and I told her about my refusal to install Trevor’s kiln.

“A kiln?” she asked.

“He wants to expand into ceramics.”

“What happened to the key chains?”

“They continue.”

“And the mushrooms?”