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on the dresser, or under the bed. In a panic, Peter rifled through the
    laundry basket and searched the pockets of the jeans he’d worn last night.
    He threw them back when he found them empty. Think, dammit. Where
    could it be?
    He remembered calling Demetra to pick him up. That was the last time
    he’d used it. Had he left it at Adam’s? He hoped so. It was two operating
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    systems out of date and there was a big crack across the screen, but he
    couldn’t afford to replace it right now.
    He had some money put away, but working at the family business, he
    didn’t even draw a regular salary like the other employees. Every quarter
    when they did the books, he got a sort of allowance—which never amounted
    to very much. His day-to-day spending money came from what he earned in
    tips. And this month he was a little short.
    But he would have to deal with the phone situation later or risk giving
    his pop something to yell about by being late. Peter locked the door and,
    since the weather was good, slid his sunglasses on and walked the short
    distance to the diner.
    Balmy summer Sunday afternoons were always busy at the restaurant,
    with an influx of pedestrians looking for a place to grab a quick bite. To no
    one’s great surprise, Mike had called in sick again—the third Sunday this
    month—and Peter was hustled off his feet, filling in wherever needed while
    Stavros worked the grill and Annie waited tables. If it had been up to him,
    he would have fired Mike’s slacker ass long ago; even Annie, who was only
    twenty-two and a part-time college student, was more reliable. But Mike
    was a distant cousin and therefore subject to Pop’s “family is everything”
    policy.His dad had opened the place in 1985, long before the strip, now known
    as GreekTown, had become hip and popular. He’d bought the whole building
    a few years later, and now the rent from the apartment above kept them afloat
    during the leaner winter months. Today the area boasted an impressive array
    of restaurants—most of them Greek—almost a dozen crammed into one short
    mile, and Kosta’s Greek Grill struggled to compete in a saturated market. Just
    one more worry riding on his shoulders these days.
    The atmosphere was casual, family oriented, with an open kitchen
    along one wall and booths along the other. Although they had seats for forty,
    the majority of the business was takeout. A large flat-screen television was
    broadcasting a steady stream of European football above a small bar. While
    the restaurant next door catered to the upscale crowd with high-priced
    Mediterranean cuisine, Kosta’s had no such aspirations. Just like the décor,
    the menu hadn’t changed since Peter had been born: souvlaki and gyros.
    Sometimes he fancied if they cut him open that’s all they’d find inside.
    The weather today was beautiful, so Peter had folded back the floor-
    to-ceiling front windows to make the most of it. He’d been after Pop to set
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    up extra tables on the sidewalk like all the other places on the block, but that
    idea, along with many of his others, had been vetoed.
    By 2:00 p.m. the worst of the lunch rush was winding down, and Peter
    was behind the small bar restocking, when Annie leaned across the counter
    and startled him. “So, I caught Kosta out back smoking again last night,”
    she said with a wicked grin.
    Peter ground his teeth. Honestly it was like taking care of a child
    sometimes. His pop seemed determined to flout every rule laid down by his
    doctors. “And?”
    “He told me to mind my own business. And not to tell you, of course.”
    “Well, thanks anyway. I’ll have a talk with him. Not that it will do
    much good. I’m the last person he listens to.”
    Annie dropped her tray on the bartop with a clatter. “Whoa. Hello,
    handsome,” she murmured.
    Peter spun around to see who had inspired her comment and found
    Demetra’s brother standing just inside the front door. At