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walls; they were
spotlessly clean and shiny. In fact, the entire room was gleaming.
    As Chris stood in the hall and peered through the
doorway, a very large man dressed in white and wearing an apron
walked into the kitchen from what Chris guessed was the pantry. He
was puffing loudly as he balanced several vegetable crates in his
arms and slowly made his way across the room to set them down on a
counter.
    As the man approached the counter, the boxes began
to tip forward and he let out a yelp. Chris darted forward and,
reaching up as high as he could, pushed back against the pile.
    “I think I've got them!” he said
loudly and stood there holding the boxes as the man tried to
re-balance the pile.
    “Good boy!” the man, who Chris decided
must be the cook, exclaimed. “Hang on and we'll sidle over to
the counter.” They walked slowly across the floor in unison and
slid the crates on to the counter. The cook stepped back and wiped
off his forehead with the back of his hand.
    “Whew! That was a close one.” He
looked down at Chris with a broad grin. “Nicely done. You saved
a week's worth of tomatoes there.”
    Chris smiled back. “My pleasure, sir.”
    The man gave the stack of boxes a final check and
then wiped his hands on his apron and looked down at Chris. “And
now, my friend, let us be introduced.” He held out his hand and
shook Chris' firmly. “I am Mario Denofrio; but most of the
residents just call me Chef. And you are...?”
    “Chris Wright, sir. Nice to meet you.”
    “Likewise, Chris Wright, especially after
your timely save. And what can I do for you tonight?”
    As he asked the question, Chef turned and waved
Chris toward a chair next to the counter that ran the length of the
room. Chris sat down gratefully. He was starting to feel very tired.
    “Well, Martin was bringing me down but had
to stop for a minute, so he sent me ahead. I just arrived and, well,
I haven't eaten for a while and...”
    “Say no more!” Chef said loudly and
held up both hands dramatically. “A young man needs constant
feeding, how well I know! And a hungry young man even more so. Let me
just whip something up.”
    Chef immediately began to bustle around the
kitchen. Chris watched in fascination. For a large man, the cook was
very quick and agile, and bounced between the stove, refrigerator,
cupboards and counter with such speed that Chris had a hard time
figuring out what he was doing.
    In the midst of his preparations, Chef visited the
fridge and then put a tall glass of juice in front of Chris. “Start
with that, young Christopher. Get some vitamin C into you,” he
said and carried on with his cooking.
    Chris took a long swallow of the juice. It was
grape, his favorite; ice cold and delicious.
    In a surprisingly short time, Chef had set a plate
in front of Chris. It was piled high with pasta smothered in a thick
meat sauce and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. Chris' stomach rumbled
loudly at the amazing smell and Chef chuckled as he handed Chris a
knife and fork.
    “Get that into you, my young friend, while I
see about dessert.” Then he patted Chris lightly on the
shoulder, took his glass and headed off toward the fridge.
    The food was amazing. However, Chris had only
taken a few bites when he caught a movement from the corner of his
eye. He turned quickly toward the doorway to find Martin leaning
against the frame, arms folded and smiling. He waved toward Chris'
plate.
    “Carry one, Mr. Wright. Chef's food is much
too good to let it get cold.”
    Chris' mouth was too full to answer but he nodded
an enthusiastic agreement and went back to his dinner.
    Chef walked back from the fridge with Chris'
refilled glass and put an enormous piece of apple pie smothered with
whipped cream next to his plate. He smiled at Chris again and then
walked over to Martin.
    “So, we have a new resident, Martin?”
he asked.
    “I think so, Chef. That's for the judge to
decide, of course. For now, we'll call him a guest.”
    Chris