Odds of Dying: Chapter 4

       Hot showers are wonderful restoratives. Naps are even better. I took both, but got a little carried away with the nap. The sun had shifted to the other side of the house when I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on a tee-shirt and a pair of old jeans and staggered into the kitchen.
If I’d been hungry before, I was ravenous now. I rummaged through the refrigerator and the breadbox and put together a quick sandwich of cold spaghetti with tomato sauce on crusty sourdough. I’d learned the basic rule of the sandwich from my first foster mother—namely, there’s nothing edible that can’t be put between two pieces of bread. Even after I’d been moved on to my second, third and fourth foster family, a sandwich, any sandwich, remained my personal comfort food.
     Leaning over the sink to spare my kitchen floor from random loose strands of spaghetti, I chomped my way through half a loaf of sourdough, noodles, and red meat sauce. I’d just crammed the last bite into my mouth when the doorbell rang. I padded barefoot across the living room and opened the door without bothering to peek through the little spy hole in the door first. Since nine times out of ten my visitors are people soliciting for a good cause and the tenth time they’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, I was pretty surprised to find Tony Dezzutti standing on my doorstep.