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appliances in the room are an avocado-green oven and a harvest-gold fridge.
    But it smells good in here. Tundu puts a paper plate down, and on it sits a big floppy egg atop a couple sausage patties. On a smaller plate, Cason gets a doughnut that isn’t like any doughnut he’s ever seen—it’s triangular, like an empanada, and crusted with sugar and busted-up peanut pieces and drizzled with a zig-zag of honey.
    Cason goes there first. When he breaks the ‘doughnut’ open, a cloud of cardamom perfume hits him square in the nose. Unexpected, but only serves to make him hungrier. He tears into it like a starving dog.
    “What the hell is this?” Cason asks, cheeks bulging.
    “I told you. Doughnut.”
    “Ish no doughnut.”
    “It’s a... a Kenyan doughnut, let’s say. Mandazi.”
    “Ish good.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Not bad, not bad.” Tundu sits, starts digging into eggs.
    Cason says, “About last night.”
    “Mm. What about it?”
    “How much did you see?”
    “I saw everything, man.”
    “Everything.”
    “Your wife beating the shit out of you. The... the little boy with the skillet? I see it all, chief. I see it all.” Tundu laughs.
    “And the thing with the Lexus? And the woman and the...” He lets his words drift.
    “Whaddya you mean, man? That lady scramble your brain with that pan.”
    A thought strikes Cason: did any of that really happen?
    “Maybe so.” He rubs his neck. It still feels sore.
    “So whatchoo gonna do now, Mister Cole?”
    “Cason. Or Case.” He cuts into the sausage. “I don’t really know. Yesterday I had a job, and it was a shitty job, but it was a job. And that job gave me a place to stay, and now...” He chews. “Both of those things are gone.”
    “What’d you do for work?”
    “Bodyguard bullshit. For someone who didn’t need his body guarded.” Because with a touch of his finger he could have you flailing like a fucking Muppet. “Used to be a fighter, though. Once upon a time.”
    “A fighter. Like, boxer.” Tundu mimics the sweet science, both fists up in a comical boxer stance. He fake-punches the air in front of Cason’s head.
    “MMA. Mixed martial arts. Little bit of hapkido, bit of Brazilian jiu jitsu.”
    “You any good?”
    “Was. Called me ‘The Beast.’ They said I was a rising star.”
    “Why’d you give it up?”
    “I….” He thrusts his tongue into the pocket of his cheek. “I just did.”
    “Well, Cason the Fighter-Man, you can stay here for the rest of the week if you like. Cheap! I can even put in a word for you at the cab company. Boss is a real shit, you know—he’s both the turd and the fly eating the turd—but the job is the job and driving a cab is a bit of all right, man. Gives you time to think .”
    “Thanks, T., I appreciate it. And I’ll think about it. Hey, can I grab a shower?”
     
     
    T HE HOT WATER’S a scorcher and the cold water’s like a winter puddle, and the shower offers nothing in between. Cason goes with the hot. Leaves him lobster red, but the pain is good. Makes him feel alive. Keyed up.
    The bathroom itself isn’t much to look at. All Pepto pink tile. Small, too. One bathroom for a big family and the counter is evidence of that—everybody’s things crowd the counter, leaving little space. Soaps and off-brand toothpaste and a box of tampons and a spilled paper cup of Q-tips and cottonballs.
    The mirror’s clean, but cracked. Smudged with fog from a too-hot shower.
    Cason stands, fresh out of the shower. With the flat of his hand he opens up a patch of clean mirror and takes a good long look at himself.
    Jesus.
    He looks like microwaved hell.
    He’s let himself go. Once his body was a series of knife-edges; now it’s dull and rounded. Muscle that forgot it was muscle and settled on being fat, instead.
    Settled.
    That word. That’s what he’s done.
    He gave everything up that night on the highway. Had to. Wanted to. It was the only way. Not that it made sense. But you hit a certain point where you