Conspirator

The noon traffic waned, and Alain pulled up a chair. “Alive, mon gars?”

“I slept too late last night,” I said again.

He grunted. “A good night’s sleep staves off eternal rest. Do you need the Mademoiselle to give you an earful?”

“Does he mean me?” Dawn asked.

“The doctor.” I glanced over, and saw her eyes flit away. “She has a habit of spying.”

“She paid for the right to stare,” the owner laughed. “A coffee is a ticket to the zoo.”